recognize familiar faces and learn their names.
This particular table seated six and each chair was filled by a virile, rugged-looking wrangler who appeared as if he’d ridden up to the restaurant’s doors on a horse rather the extra-wide truck that was now parked in the front lot.
Her brown eyes traveled from one member of the group to another, silently greeting them even before she said, “Hi, boys, what’ll it be?”
The tallest of the men held his unopened menu before him, his eyes slowly drifting over the length of her torso. “Dunno about my friends, but I’m suddenly in the mood for a little Georgia peach,” he told her.
Word must have gotten around that she was from Atlanta. Either that, she thought, or her accent gave her away. In any case, this certainly wasn’t the first time she’d been hit on, although it was the first time she’d been hit on at Red.
Unfazed, Wendy’s eyes sparkled as she laughed. “Sorry, but that’s not on the menu.”
“Wasn’t thinking of having it here,” the wrangler answered. His grin grew wider. “What are you doing later, after you get off?”
“Not being with you,” Wendy answered, her smile just as wide, her tone just as friendly as it had been before. But there was no mistaking the fact that she had no intention of getting together with the insistent patron.
“Looks like the little lady’s got your number, Dave,” one of his friends hooted, tickled. “She’s a feisty one, this one.” There was admiration in the other man’s voice.
Dave, apparently, wasn’t quite ready to give up just yet.
“You sure?” he asked, catching Wendy by the wrist to draw her attention away from the others at the table and back to him. “You really don’t know what you’re missing out on.”
“Guess that’ll just have to be my loss,” Wendy replied, fisting her hand as she began to yank her wrist free.
“C’mon, Dave, settle down,” another one of his tablemates urged.
Before anyone else could chime in, Wendy suddenly found herself being physically moved aside and manually separated from the overzealous cowboy. To her surprise, Marcos had placed himself between them, facing the amorous customer. His rigid posture told her he was none too happy about this situation, even before she heard his voice.
“Is there some kind of problem here?” Marcos asked the man, keeping his voice even and the edge of his anger visible but under wraps.
“No, no problem,” the cowboy assured him, raising his hands up in the universal symbol indicating complete surrender.
“Good,” Marcos replied with a quick nod. Turning to see who was in the immediate vicinity, he called out to the closest waitress. “Eva.”
Recording an order, the woman looked up and raised a single quizzical eyebrow when she saw who had called her name.
Marcos indicated the people at the table. “When you’re done over there, take this table’s orders, please.”
Okay, hold it, Wendy thought, growing annoyed. If he thought he could just shoo her away like an inconsequential fly just because a customer had gotten a little grabby, Mr. Marcos Mendoza was in for a big surprise. She wasn’t about to be dismissed that easily—especially not since she had the impression that the restaurant manager would back her up.
“There’s no need to call in anyone else,” she told him cheerfully, her smile never wavering. “This is my station, I can take their order.”
Marcos felt his temper flaring. He was not nearly as laid-back as he had to pretend to be when he was at Red. But exploding in front of a roomful of diners wasn’t something he wanted to do. Aside from it being bad for business, it was guaranteed to get back to his aunt and uncle within five minutes. He didn’t want them regretting having hired him.
The way he grossly regretted that they had hired this Fortune woman, favor or no favor.
“Then do it,” he instructed tersely. Before leaving, Marcos paused for a moment to issue her a silent warning that he didn’t want any more trouble from her or because of her.
The moment Marcos was out of earshot, the man who had started the dust-up gave her a sheepish grin. “Sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble with your boss.”
Readying the electronic board she’d been given to note down the various orders, Wendy glanced over her shoulder at Marcos’s broad, disappearing back.
“You didn’t.” She turned back to face the men at the table. “He’s had it in for me ever since I started working here.”
“Anything we can do?” another one of the patrons at the table asked seriously.
“Yes,” she answered cheerfully. “You can order. Now, what’ll it be, gentlemen?”
This time, they gave her their orders without any further incident.
Wendy Fortune was trouble.
Marcos had known in his gut she would be. Knew it the very first time he laid eyes on her. The patrons, his uncle had pointed out after observing her on the floor the second day she was on duty, liked her.
But that, Marcos thought, was part of the problem. Some of the male patrons seemed to like her too much.
He supposed, if he were an impartial observer, he couldn’t exactly blame them. She had a supple figure that caught a man’s attention, even hidden beneath the wide, colorful skirt and white, off-the-shoulder peasant blouse that the female waitstaff wore. Couple that with her soft laugh and that Southern accent of hers and the men were drawn in like hapless fish in an overstocked lake.
When word of mouth about the new “knockout of a waitress” spread, business at Red started booming even more than usual.
He wouldn’t have minded what was happening if—
If?
What if?
Was it because he was annoyed that business had picked up, not dropped off the way he’d feared when he’d predicted that the Fortune girl would be bad for Red?
Or was there something else that was annoying him about her presence in his restaurant?
Was it just that rich people in general annoyed him because he thought that they always acted as if they were better than everyone else?
In Wendy’s defense—as if he had to defend her—he hadn’t noticed her behaving that way once she’d begun working here. There was no bored-to-tears heiress drama about her. She’d listened diligently while Eva showed her the ropes, instructing her where to find the flatware and dishes, how to serve people, how to pour beer into their glasses and a whole host of things he was sure Wendy hadn’t concerned herself with prior to coming here.
According to Eva, she had been a good student, absorbing everything she was told the first time around. There was no need for repetition.
Maybe it was just that he didn’t like his opinion being disregarded—and
