It was the way he watched her, she decided. As if he sensed the truth beneath her words. Could see what she so desperately needed to hide—her interest in him, how much she was enjoying him, his smile and humor, his confidence and looks.
You don’t always get what you want.
No, she certainly didn’t. That was life. One long journey of trying and trying and trying. Of mediocre triumphs and spectacular failures. She had no qualms about going after her goals, wasn’t afraid to fall on her face during a long, hard climb. But just because you wanted something, just because you busted your ass, kept your focus and worked hard every day didn’t mean you’d succeed.
Just because you wanted something didn’t mean it was good for you.
“Let me get you a drink,” the cowboy said, glancing around as if searching for a waitress—when one was right in front of him. “We can talk. Get to know each other better.”
“Yes, that sounds like a great idea. And I’m sure none of my coworkers, or my supervisor, will care if I sit down in the middle of my shift and toss back a few with a customer.”
He frowned. Scanned her from head to toe, as if suddenly remembering she should be getting him a drink. Not the other way around. “What time do you get done?”
“You’re persistent. I’ll give you that.” It was flattering. Knowing he was willing to work a bit to get her time and attention.
That she was seriously considering telling him she’d be done by midnight annoyed her to no end. She didn’t date customers, never hooked up with men she waited on. It set a bad precedence. Gave them the crazy idea that she’d serve them in bed, too.
An unsteady blonde in leather tottered over to them. Pressed against his side. “Darling,” she said, tugging at his elbow, “don’t flirt with the help. It’s unseemly.”
Ivy bit back a wince. Damned her cheeks for heating.
The help.
Well, if that didn’t put things into perspective, nothing would.
“Yes, darling,” Ivy said, mimicking the older woman’s slightly slurred, superior tone, “listen to your date. One must always remember one’s station in life.”
Ivy never forgot hers.
The blonde’s smile was none-too-sober and as fake as her boobs. “Aren’t you sweet?”
Ivy matched her toothy grin with one of her own. “Not particularly.”
“She’s not my date,” the cowboy said, keeping a hand on the woman’s upper arm. “She’s my mother.”
His tone was pure resignation with a bit of embarrassment thrown in for good measure. Ivy could relate. Her mother had never been able to grasp the concept of acting—or dressing—her age, either.
“I’ll have a dirty martini,” his mother told Ivy as she clung to her son’s arm—though Ivy guessed that had less to do with maternal love and more to do with her being three sheets to the wind. If she let go, she’d probably fall on her surgically modified, freakishly smooth face. Though that huge helmet of teased and sprayed hair might protect her from brain damage. “Three olives.”
“And damn the calories,” Ivy said under her breath, taking in the woman’s ultrathin frame. Looked as if those olives were tonight’s dinner.
She turned to the cowboy, was taken aback by his easy grin. Guess he’d heard her. She wanted to return his smile, but the help were to be seen, not heard. Ordered about, not engaged in small talk or flirtations. At least, not publicly.
She shook her head. She really needed to cut back on those reruns of Downton Abbey.
“And you, sir?”
His eyes narrowed on the sir, which, admittedly, she’d emphasized. No harm reminding them both why they were there. Who they were.
But she hated seeing that smile fade.
“Bourbon,” he said. “Neat.”
She inclined her head. “Right away.”
Ivy brushed past him. Could feel him watching her as she crossed the room toward the bar, but she refused to look back. Though she possibly added a bit more sway to her hips.
“Table 15 needs drinks,” she told her coworker Vanessa. “Could you handle that for me? Dirty martini for the Dancing Queen. Three olives.” They’d all seen the blonde shaking her ass in that leather dress. “Bourbon, neat, for the cowboy.”
Setting cocktail napkins on her tray while Kent, the bartender, filled her order, Vanessa shook her head, her short, artificially red hair swinging. “Don’t try to pawn your butt-grabber off on me. I’ve gone the entire evening without any pats, rubs or pinches. I’d like to keep it that way. Preserve the record.”
Ah, the life of a cocktail waitress. People thought the goods being displayed were theirs to touch. Even a subdued, family-type gathering such as an engagement party could get out of hand once the alcohol started flowing.
“He’s not a butt-grabber,” Ivy said. A man who looked like that, with that deep, subtle twang, didn’t have to resort to creepy tactics to get a woman’s attention.
“I was talking about the woman,” Vanessa said. “She looks capable and more than ready to eat anyone alive. And there must be a reason you don’t want to deliver them yourself.”
Many, many reasons. The number one being self-preservation.
“Trust me,” Ivy said. “Your butt is safe. And the reason I don’t want to deliver them myself is because it’s my break time.”
“Fine. I’ll switch you table 15 for table 8.”
“Done.” Ivy skirted the bar and snagged a flute of champagne from a tray before pushing through the door to a small hallway. She walked past the kitchen on her right, then, farther down, a small break room on the left and kept going until she reached the metal exterior door.
She pushed it open and stepped out into the night. The cold stung her cheeks, stole her breath. Still, she kept going, her high heels echoing on the pavement as she crossed the dimly lit parking lot to her ancient car. She climbed behind the wheel, shut the door and stared blindly through the windshield.
What was that? What the hell was that?
The cowboy had flustered her. Unnerved her. Worse than that, he’d known it.
She’d given him power. Control. Had pretty much handed them over to him on a platter along with her good sense and a portion of her pride.
She took a gulp of champagne. Bubbles exploded inside her mouth, the taste light and expensive, but it did nothing to wash away the bitterness rising in her throat.
Men never flustered her. Why should they? They were simple souls with simple needs. Basic needs. When they saw her, they saw opportunity. What she could do for them. What she had to give them. How she could make them feel.
Why shouldn’t she turn that around—twist their desire for her, their attraction to her—to her advantage? A warm smile, a light, friendly touch to an arm, some harmless flirting could all increase her night’s tips.
And she was always—always—the one ruling the game.
Until one tall, green-eyed cowboy had to come along and mess things up.
She finished the champagne. Wished she’d helped herself to two glasses.
Or at least had had the foresight to grab her coat.
The cowboy’s fault, as well. He’d scrambled her thoughts.