Chapter Four
AVERY
Three weeks of waitressing and I haven’t spilled, dropped, or broken anything, so pouring a bowl of hot soup into the lap of the drummer from Blue Phoenix is a spectacular way to break my perfect record.
This isn’t my fault, Bryn Hughes moved his chair at the wrong moment, and I tripped forward attempting to hang onto the bowls. The bowl I carry in one hand survives; the other empties its orange, pumpkin goodness all over a millionaire rock star.
Bryn jerks his head round and jumps to his feet, the liquid trickling down his grey trousers. “What the fuck?”
“Oh, my God, I’m so sorry.” Without thinking, I dump the other bowl on the table, grab one of the perfectly folded white napkins from the table, and start wiping at the damp patch on Bryn’s crotch.
“Whoa, you could at least buy me a drink before making a move on me!” he says.
“Crap! Sorry!” From spilt soup to inappropriate touching of guests, I can safely wave this job goodbye.
The calmness of Bryn’s tone surprises me, especially considering the other band members are laughing at him. Aware of the heat on my cheeks spreading, I look up at him. Amused brown eyes regard me, which is a relief, but doesn’t help with the blushing because this is the closest I’ve been to anybody famous. His brown curls rest against his forehead, full mouth fighting a smile as he looks down at me. Literally looks down. He towers over me and if he was angry, I’d be terrified. At just over five-feet tall, most people are taller than me but this guy…
“Good thing your soup isn’t too hot,” Bryn says. “Or that you didn’t spill it on Jem’s lap and injure him.”
“Why?” asks someone I recognise as Jem Jones, a tightly wound guy hidden behind brown curly hair twice as long as Bryn’s.
“Could do some serious brain damage if something injured your dick,” says Bryn with a laugh.
“Fucking hilarious,” mutters Jem and the scarlet-haired girl next to him joins in the sniggering around the table.
Has Bryn deliberately switched focus from me? I step back and smooth my skirt, unsure what the etiquette is now.
Walk away?
When I discovered I was waitressing on the day of the big Blue Phoenix wedding, excitement vied for nerves. There are a lot of people out there who’d give their right arm to be privy to such a momentous occasion, the first of the guys to get married. The event is nowhere near as pretentious as I expected, lower key than some of the bridezillas and, often worse, bridezilla mothers I have to wait on at the castle venue I work at part-time.
The bride and groom sit at the top table with a little girl next to them. The longhaired bass player, Liam, and Cerys, the girl with white flowers plaited into her hair, can barely keep their eyes or hands off each other. Their awareness of others in the room seems to have disappeared. Two people in love, not what I want to see right now.
“Sorry,” I mumble again. “I’ll get something to clear it up.”
“It’s all good, just find me a towel,” says Bryn.
Nodding in a stupefied way, I head to the kitchen. The moment the double doors swing closed behind me, I slump against a counter next to the chef and let out a stream of expletives I wanted to use when I spilled the soup. Although rock stars wouldn’t find this kind of language anything out of the ordinary, as a waitress, this would’ve added insult to the behaviour.
“What’s up?” David, the junior chef, looks over from where he’s sautéing potatoes.
“You’ll never guess what I just did,” I groan.
“Try me.”
I’m relieved it’s David here and not Keith, the head chef who makes Gordon Ramsey seem like Delia Smith.
“I just dumped soup over the drummer.”
David laughs. Not just a chuckle but full on raucous. “You’re kidding me?”
“I wish I was.”
“Is he okay?” David’s amusement disappears as the thing I’m worried about dawns. What if he complains? Sues us?
“He’s bit damp. I said I’d get him a towel.”
Shaking his head, David returns to his cooking. “Wait until Gemma finds out.”
“I know.” Maître d’ and chief bitch has found fault with me the whole time I’ve worked here. This job’s temporary, to fill the holidays between semesters before I head back to uni in London. Gemma has a chip on her shoulder about students, and every day something I do is wrong; badly folded napkins, inadequately shined cutlery, and once because I didn’t smile enough. Hypocrite, her face is permanently miserable. Gemma’s going to love this.
I grab a tea towel and debate how much use it will be against the amount of soup covering Bryn’s trousers, but head out of the kitchen anyway. Bryn hovers outside and I almost slam into his wall of muscle.
“Glad you’re not carrying more soup,” he says and steadies me with his hand.
Bryn’s large palm is warm against my arm and his decision to touch me spikes my already high heart rate.
I’m in physical contact with a rock star
. I chastise myself; I’ll be swooning and giggling next.
“Here,” I half-squeak and hold out the white and blue tea towel.
He raises an eyebrow. “That’s too small; there’s a lot down there to dry, you know.”
My face flares again at his double meaning. “Maybe take your trousers off…”
Oh, my God
. “I mean, do you have anything to change into?”
Bryn makes a mock gasp. “I told you. You need to at least, buy me a drink before I put out! Groping me and then trying to get into my pants…you look so sweet and innocent, too.”
I take a deep breath. I deserve this but I’m not taking it. “That’s amusing. I made a mistake and I’m trying to help.”
Bryn takes the towel. “I know, but see the funny side, hey?”
“Yeah, hilarious when I lose my job.”
“Over one bowl of spilt soup?”
“Believe me; somebody is looking for an excuse to get rid of me.”
“Hmm. Well, I won’t complain if that’s what you’re worried about. Accidents happen.”
“I can’t believe you’re calm about this.”
“What would I achieve by being shitty about it?” He pauses. “Oh, because I’m famous you think I’ll have an attitude to you common folk.”
Unsure whether this is teasing or what he thinks of me, I choose to ignore the comment and switch back to my professional mode. “Thank you. Is there anything else I can get you?”
I don’t miss the sweeping appraisal of my white shirt and black skirt. Or more precisely, my tits and legs. “More soup, maybe?” he asks. “In a bowl this time, please.”
“Okay.”
He hands me the now orange stained towel. “And your name.”
My heart sinks into my shoes. “I thought you said you weren’t going to complain?”
“I’m not. I’d like to know your name as we’ve already been so intimate.”
“Avery.”
“Aviary? Like the place birds live?”
I open my mouth to retort, but there’s no hint of teasing. Does he seriously think anybody would have that as a name?
“No, A-ver-y, like the girl who sucks at waitressing.”
Bryn smiles. “Cool name. Well, good luck with the rest of your shift, cariad.”
I grip the tea towel as Bryn moves back to the throng of the wedding.
Did he just call me
cariad
?
****
The hyperventilation stops somewhere between entrée and main course as I serve other tables and manage to keep the soup in the bowls. Still, the idea of approaching a table full of famous people I’ve mortally embarrassed myself in front of, is as appealing as my planned night out tomorrow. A pre-Christmas catch-up with school friends returning home after going their separate ways is normally fun. This year not so much. Each year, we drift apart a little more and some drift closer. Such as my now ex and my now ex-best friend.
I’m pulled out of my musing by Kim, who digs me in the ribs. “He asked where you were.”
“Who did?”
“The guy you poured soup on.”
“What? Why?”
Kim shrugs and picks up large plates from the side and hands them to me. “Maybe he wants sexual favours in return for not registering a complaint?”
“What the hell?” Kim’s face shows no hint of teasing. She actually believes this? “I don’t think so.”
“Well, I noticed he’s the only one of them without a date. I’ve always wondered if the guy’s gay, but he definitely appreciated the view when I was serving him.” Kim straightens her white shirt with a grin. “So, he’s probably looking for a hook-up.”
“Be my guest.” I gesture toward the door. Kim’s around my age, studies at catering college and works here part-time. She looks older than me though, one of those girls who’s spent a lot of time studying make-up artistry videos on YouTube. I’m a mascara and lipstick girl. Although, when I’m here, I have to trowel it on a bit thicker to reach Gemma’s standards of grooming.
“Avery! You know I have a boyfriend!”
“Fine, but he can forget trying it on with me.” I take the plates of carved beef and push through the double-doors with my backside. With each step closer to the table, my skin heats an extra degree. I grip the plates, my earlier nervousness about serving Blue Phoenix now multiplied by a thousand after ‘Soupgate’.
Without making eye contact, I place the plates on the table in front of Bryn and the guy next to him.
The guy next to him?
Huh, try Dylan ‘smoking hot and I wouldn’t need asking twice thank you very much’ Morgan. The blonde-haired girl he’s with is used to reading my kind of reaction to Dylan and arches a brow at me. But Dylan’s not the only attractive guy here; there’s enough testosterone at this table they could bottle it and sell to people who need to get laid.
As this thought crosses my mind, I meet Bryn’s eyes. Standing closer than I’d prefer, my nerves about being around him are confused. Is this anxiety or attraction? Sometimes it’s hard to tell.
Great.
“Thanks,” he says, “looking good.”
“Pardon?” I can’t believe I was just thinking about people getting laid.
“The food. Looks good, cariad.”
“Oh. Right.”
Then Bryn winks at me, followed immediately by a shout of pain and a dirty look at the blonde-haired girl with Dylan. “What the hell did you kick me for?”
“Leave her alone, Bryn. She’s having a bad night,” she says.
“I’m only being friendly!”
“Don’t stress,” says Dylan. “Bryn isn’t one for picking up random chicks.” His words are also followed by a scowl at his girlfriend as she smacks the back of his hand. “What?”
“Chicks!” she hisses.
“Jesus, Sky. Random
girls…
”
I don’t care what he calls me; Dylan Morgan just bloody spoke to me. I make a noise somewhere between a mumble and a giggle, a sound akin to an injured woodland creature then back away. Bryn’s gaze is fixed on mine; and whatever Dylan says, I recognise that look. The slow smile Bryn gives cements my certainty that he loves my reaction to him.
****
BRYN
Avery carefully weaves her way through the tables toward the kitchen; her shapely ass, squeezed into the conservative length black skirt, centre of my attention.
What about her as tonight’s girl? I've watched the chick since the soup incident and the glances we've exchanged indicate I wouldn't be wasting my time if I did turn my attention to this chick. My options are limited, few other guests at the wedding are alone, and most are too old or too young for me.
I'm staying here tonight and if I have my way, she can stay with me.
“Tongue away, Bryn,” says Sky and I blink in her direction. “Stop leering at the waitresses.”
“I'm only leering at one.”
“Hmm.” She fixes me with a sour look.
I turn to Dylan. “Dylan, sometimes your fiancée forgets she's chosen a lifestyle with rock stars, and that involves our occasional leering at women.”
“I think Sky's teasing you, mate,” he replies.
Sky gives me a sweet smile. “Leer at who you want.”
“I intend to,” I say gruffly and stab at the asparagus on my plate.
Sky closes her hand around mine. “Are you okay?”
“Fine.”
“It's just… you didn't bring anybody.”
I drag my hand away. “And?” I snap.
“Whoa. Okay.” Sky glances at Dylan.
“I came to this wedding alone by choice.”
“Yeah, and judging by his eyeing up of the waitress, he has reasons,” says Jem. “Gonna get laid, Bryn?”
Sky shoots him a look, but Jem just raises an eyebrow at her.
“Why is my personal life suddenly hot topic of the night?” I growl.
“Calm down, man. We don't care who you screw,” says Jem. “Mia might though.”
“For fuck's sake!” I stand and push back the chair, the wood-on-wood screech attracting attention. “I'm always such a fucking joke, aren't I?”