Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 37645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 188(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 125(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 188(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 125(@300wpm)
Our eyes meet for the fourth, fifth, sixth time. I try to smile, but my face doesn’t work. He gives a single up-nod and heads for the stairs.
My shift finally ends at three. I clock out, grab my stuff from my locker, and try to remember how to breathe. As I head for the exit, I see him standing by the back door, arms folded, waiting.
For what, I don’t know.
But the air between us crackles like static. And I know that if I don’t say something, I’ll regret it.
CHAPTER 5
WYATT
I watch Naomi walk up to the exit. It’s been one long goddamn night. As I watched her, she kept throwing glances my direction, like she could feel my eyes following her. She aced her first night while I lost my goddamn heart.
Here I am planning ways to tie her little ass to me for life while she’s just trying to get out the door.
I want to say something clever, but all I get out is, “How was your first shift?”
Her stunning blue eyes hold mine hostage as she nods, breathless. “It was…unusual.”
I’m sure that’s a goddamn understatement. I smile. “You did good. Most people can’t handle wiping ass marks off the tables.”
She laughs, eyes sparkling. “That was my favorite part.”
We stand there for a second, the silence thick and strange. She tugs her cardigan tighter and looks up at me, searching for something in my face. I wish I knew what.
I suddenly remember she doesn’t know who the fuck I am. “Wyatt Byrne. Head of Security.” I stick out my hand, and ready myself for the jolt when her soft skin touches mine.
Nothing could’ve prepared me for what happens when she takes it, her palm warm and surprisingly strong. “Naomi Bardot,” she says. “Waitress, first day.” She holds my gaze, daring me to say something dumb.
Her hand doesn’t let go, not immediately. We stand like that, locked together, long enough that I can feel every tiny tremor in her fingertips. For a second, the club fades away and the world is just her eyes, huge and blue and very much awake.
She’s the one who finally breaks the contact, but not by much. She keeps her hand on my wrist as she shrugs her bag higher on her shoulder. “I better go.”
Dumbfuck. Get your head out of your ass. “You need an escort to your car?” I manage to ask, trying to sound professional when I’m feeling anything but.
She shakes her head. “I don’t have a car. I only live a few blocks away, so I walk.” Then, softer, “But thanks.”
I want to ask her out for coffee. Or to have my babies. But the words die on my tongue. Instead, I offer. “Would you like a ride then?”
“That isn’t necessary.” I can tell by the stubborn set of her shoulders I’m not going to win this round so I give her slight smile. “I’ll see you later.”
“Yep.” She steps past me, and for a moment her arm brushes mine. The contact sends a jolt up my spine, a clean hit of dopamine and something older, deeper. She gives me a crooked smile and disappears out the heavy metal door.
I wait until the count of ten then I follow her out into the warm Texas early morning. Calling on all my skills, I stay with her but out of sight. I watch her walk up the front steps of a small, yet well-kept home a couple roads off the main street. Once I’m sure she’s safely inside, I head back to the club to finish up my night.
It takes less than a week for my obsession to turn pathological. One day I’m a pro with a ten-year career in high-stress security gigs; the next I’m a goddamn walking hazard, more interested in tracking a single woman through a crowded room than checking if the fire exits are clear. It’s almost impressive, how efficiently Naomi Bardot manages to root herself into my brain.
I try to fight it. Every night I tell myself to make my move but this is too important to fuck up and I’m trying to take things slow. Every night I go home and replay missed opportunities with Naomi until the insomnia burns holes in my REM cycles. Every morning I wake up with a hard cock, angry, and needing a cold shower just to get back on baseline.
Tonight the club is at capacity, a rolling boil of horny millionaires and their pleasure seeking partners. The cameras catch every angle of the action, but my eyes keep drifting to the main bar, to the blur of black skirt and red curls that is Naomi.
She has a way of moving through the club like she owns it, not just passing by tables but scanning them, memorizing every face, every nuance of every order. The regulars and staff already love her, but nowhere near as much as I do. She doesn’t flirt or act shy. She radiates the pure, unfiltered confidence of someone who owns the world around her.