Becky’s POV

“Table fifteen needs attention, Becky, be quick about it.” Ben, the head waiter, said impatiently.

“On it,” I answered.

I hurried over to take the order of the four men sitting at the table.

“Gin and tonic all round,” a short bearded man ordered, for his companions and himself, “be quick about it.”

“Yes sir.”

I hurried over to the bar to get their order.

“Becky, table eleven is waiting?” Ben rolled his eyes, “be quick about it.”

Be quick about it. That’s all I seem to keep hearing.

I’m not a robot, damn it!

“I will be with them in a minute,” I said, biting back the curse I was about to utter.

Keep calm, you need this job, I told myself.

I was on day three of the job as a waitress in the Billionaire Club, an exclusive club catering to Rhode Island's wealthiest people, and the job was still hard, but Mr. Davis had warned me.

And how right he was! There were ten staff members and a head waiter, with a supervisor to keep us in check. Each person was assigned to five tables. The club policy stated that customers were supposed to receive their order almost immediately, so we were under pressure to avoid any delay. And the most pressure came from dealing with the customers. Mr. Davis hadn’t been exaggerating.

They were arrogant, rude, bossy and had difficulty keeping their hands to themselves. Many times I had to restrain myself from shouting at them, reminding myself I would be fired if I did. Then there was Ben, an elderly man who resented me, either because I was so young or because most of the customers seemed to prefer me to handle their table. He was always trying to catch me making a mistake so he could complain about it. I tried my best to avoid him.

But the job had its upsides. The customers were as generous as they were obnoxious and, in just three days of working, I had made nearly a quarter of my salary in tips. If things kept up, I would be able to get an apartment and even save enough for college.

I had just taken a vodka martini to table eleven and was on my way back to the bar when he walked in.

I froze mid-step, my heart pounding with excitement as I watched him make his way to a table.

He was definitely a movie star, I thought. There was no other way to explain how a man could be this drop-dead gorgeous.

He was in his mid to late twenties, tall, with golden blonde hair and a well-muscled body that definitely came from exercise. He was dressed in a dark blue suit and with a white shirt and no tie.

Am I dreaming, or can a guy be this hot?

“My crush,” Pam, a co-worker, came to stand beside me.

“Who is he?” I asked. I could hear the desire in my voice.

“Who is he? Do you live under a rock? That’s Phillip Dale!”

I have never heard of Phillip Dale, and didn’t want to embarrass myself by asking more questions.

“Does he come here often?” I asked instead.

“Two or three times a week. Rich and hot, I could give anything to have him,” she said wistfully.

We watched him make his way to a table.

“Please let him sit at my table,” Pam prayed.

Please let him sit in mine. I thought.

My prayers were answered.

“Damn it,” Pam said.

Heart hammering, I rushed over to him. He was reading something on his phone, so I stood waiting. His sexy masculine cologne teased my nostrils. Whatever he was looking at was clearly making him angry and upset.

“Get me Pinot Noir.” His voice was deep and sexy, my heart fluttered.

“Yes sir.” I hurried to the bar.

“I don’t know why he chose to sit at your table,” Ben grumbled.

I ignored him. The bartender handed me the wine and I hurried back to the handsome guy.

He was still busy with his phone. I placed the wine on the table. He glanced at it, frowned, then looked at me.

My breath was cut. His eyes were emerald green, almost like jewels, deep and piercing. I could have stayed staring into them forever, but right now they were flashing dangerously.

“What the hell is this? I ordered Pinot Grigio, does this label say Pinot Grigio?” He demanded.

I was puzzled. He had said Pinot Noir, that I was sure.

“I am sorry sir, but you asked for Pinot Noir,” I said cautiously.

“I asked for Grigio, does Grigio and Noir sound the same? Or are you trying to make excuses for your incompetence?”

“I am sorry sir.”

“Yes, you should be sorry for your poor service.”

You are so hot. Why do you have to be a jerk?

“I am sorry,” I was worried he would make a scene and attract Ben or the supervisor. “I will change it right away.”

“Leave it,” he said harshly. “Pour it.”

I began pouring the wine. His warm breath on my arm was unsettling. My hands shook as I poured, the neck of the bottle hitting the glass.

“Can’t you be a little more quiet! What the hell is the matter with you?” He demanded.

You! You are making me lose control!

“I am sorry,” I repeated.

“Enough with the sorry. How hard is it to do your job? Why are you lazy?”

“I am not,” I answered him boldly before thinking.

Be quiet! My mind told me.

He sneered. “If you are not, then your dad probably is, that is why he can not provide for you, which is why you are here.”

That’s it!

I could see Ben approaching us, but couldn’t stop myself.

“I am here because my dad was a hardworking, decent man who taught me the value of hard work.” I told him angrily. “But your dad never taught you how to be polite and not an ass.”

His jaw dropped. Ben and everyone within hearing distance stared at me in alarm.