The doors open. Guests begin to pour in and the whole staff leaps into action. I stay rooted in place, scanning the crowd for him.
“What are you waiting for, new blood?” one of the waitresses asks me with an annoyed glance over her shoulder. “Go serve.”
Gulping, I wade into the thick of the crowd.
All of them are dripping with wealth. Literally. The men are in ten thousand dollar suits with priceless watches clasped around their wrists. The women are in designer dresses with the biggest jewels I’ve ever seen hanging around their necks, wrists, and ears. Plastic surgery is the rule, not the exception. Fake tits and nose jobs as far as the eye can see.
I happen to make eye contact with one of the women. She’s probably in her fifties, but she has the store-bought glow of someone fighting Father Time with a fair amount of success.
She’s wearing a champagne-colored power suit with strappy black stilettos. Her coat is cut low to reveal the embellished bra she’s wearing underneath and highlight the pink diamond pendant hanging between her breasts.
“Is that champagne?” she asks me.
“Yes ma’am,” I say, offering her the tray. “Dom Perignon.”
She laughs prettily. “I’d expect no less from Anton.”
Her hair is platinum blonde, but her roots are a deep, rich brown. There’s no question that she’s beautiful, but it’s a sharp kind of beauty. The kind you want to run from, not to.
I wonder how she knows Anton. Is she a friend? An acquaintance? A lover?
The last thought leaves me with a niggling feeling at the back of my mind that I don’t like one bit. Who cares if she was or is anything to him?
I certainly don’t.
“You’re not wearing a name tag.”
I blink and snap back to reality. “Uh… what?”
I cringe internally. I should have said something posh or dignified. “Excuse me” or “Pardon.” I should also pull myself together and stop babbling like an idiot.
The woman raises an eyebrow and gives me a pitying smile. “You’re not wearing a name tag. All the other waitstaff are.”
“Oh,” I say, looking down at my vest. “Right. I, uh, forgot it. But if you need anything, my name is—”
“Jessa.”
Anton emerges out of nowhere. For a moment, I think he’s reaching for me. But then his hand curls around the woman’s waist. He doesn’t pull her close or anything. It’s more like a greeting.
Albeit a very intimate one.
“Jasmine,” he murmurs, turning to the woman. “You look ravishing this evening, as usual.”
She gives him a faint smile. “Such a flirt.”
“Always.”
Both of them turn to me at the exact same time. They glitter together. It actually hurts my eyes. “The uniform suits you, Jessa,” Anton says to me.
My cheeks color. For a moment, I actually contemplate grabbing one of the champagne flutes just so I can fling the contents in his face.
“I don’t agree. But thank you.”
Jasmine looks between us, her expression twisting into amusement. “Jessa is your name?”
“Yes.”
Her smile gets a little wider. “I didn’t realize you were bringing your playthings to work, Anton.”