I freeze, recognising his voice from last night. We may not have spoken much, but I’d recognise the deep timbre of his voice anywhere.
Looking up, I see Finn towering over the man, his fists clenched at his sides, and his eyes dark with dangerous anger. My body trembles in response. The scent of him, that faint, enticing undertone of ocean rain and smoked green tea, fills my senses. It makes me feel steadier somehow, like the ground has shifted back under my feet just by him being there.
“I suggest you let go of her before things get ugly,” Finn says, his voice low and menacing. His presence is a wall of calm, unyielding authority, cutting straight through the tension in the room. It steadies me, pushing away the suffocating heaviness of the man beside me.
The man is obviously intimidated because he releases my wrist, shrinking down into the booth in an attempt to back away from Finn.
“Just having a little fun,” he mutters, before turning and resuming his conversation with his friends. His scent has gone sour, mixing with the sharp tang of frustration and something bitter.
Finn turns to me, concern etched on his face but his eyes are still blazing with a fury that takes my breath away. “Are you okay?”
I nod, feeling grateful for his intervention but surprised by the force of his reaction. “Thank you,” I say. My voice comes out a little shaky so I take a deep breath to gather myself.
“Anytime.”
Just as I’m about to open my mouth and apologise for taking off this morning, Finn offers me a small smile, his gorgeous almond eyes softening. “We have a reservation by the way. Nguyen at nine. Table of six?”
I blink when I realise that he doesn’t recognise me at all and then force a smile onto my face, embarrassed. I refuse to feel disappointed.Of course he doesn’t know me. I was wearing a blonde wig and it was dark!
“Certainly, Sir. Table one. Right this way.”
I walk back to the welcome station where the rest of his party – all older business men in suits – are talking, I grab the menus and ask them to follow me to their table. My movements are mechanical, my smile strained. Once they’re seated, I reel off the specials, hand out the menus and tell them I’ll return shortly to take their drinks order. I’m working on autopilot. Seeing him again has thrown me and I’m all out of sorts.
My eyes flick to Finn but he’s engrossed in the menu. I study him for a moment. He’s dressed very differently to his jeans and button down from last night. He’s not in a suit like the other men, but he is in slacks, a shirt and tie. I can’t help but wonder why. Who are these men? Their formal attire doesn’t suit the laid back surrounds of this beachside grill.
When I return to take their drinks order, they’re demanding and particular. I try not to stumble as I tell them I’ll check to see if we have their favourite vintage in stock, but I can’t helpbut wonder why they’re eating here, rather than in the posh restaurant up at the hotel.
Bumping into Alison, she asks me how it’s going.
“Fine. I’m just sorting drinks for the Nguyen party? Could you do the bill for table nine for me please?” I ask, palming the rowdy table off on her so that I don’t have to speak to them again.
“Of course. No problem. And as for Mr Nguyen…”
She pauses.
“Yeah?” I prompt after a beat when she doesn’t continue.
“Just wrap the bottle in a towel to avoid drips and serve him the ’75. He doesn’t know the difference and that’s what we always give him when he comes in.”
“Oh. Okay.” I don’t know what else to say. Isn’t it bad to deceive a customer like that? But if he’s a regular and that’s what they always do…
Alison must sense my hesitation. “Look, Mr Nguyen is very particular. He always sits at the same table, orders the same wine, complains about the same things. Just keep smiling, and remember that the customer is always right, especially when the customer is Mr Nguyen. If you get into any trouble, let me know.”
“Okay. No worries. They’ve all been fine so far. Except table nine.”
“Ah, I see. Well, you leave those arseholes with me.”
“Thanks Alison. I better get table one their drinks.”
She nods and I hurry over to the bar to sort the wine that Mr Nguyen asked for. We don’t have the vintage he requested and after only a moment’s hesitation, I decide to follow Alison’s advice. It’s better than facing a conflict and an unhappy customer. If he notices, I can plead ignorance and apologise. I just pray I don’t lose my job on the very first day.
I pour the wine and they all taste it, declaring it excellent. Finn says nothing but a knowing smirk passes his lips. I freeze, terrified that he’s going to out me, out the wine, as an imposter. But he simply returns his glass to the table, picks up his menu and asks the others if they are ready to order.
Their list of requirements is so long and convoluted that by the time I’ve taken their food order, five of the six of them have basically invented whole new dishes that weren’t on the menu. Finn ordered a burger with no changes and Mr Nguyen glared at him the whole time.
I ring the order through on the till and take it to the kitchen to apologise to the chef. Who orders a table for nine pm for a meal anyway? Maybe that’s the done thing in Europe, but here in England I like to eat around seven. So not only is the chef going to be pissed that their order is coming in late, he’ll be livid when he realises he has five brand new dishes to concoct.
When I tell him, he opens his mouth like he’s going to scream at me, and in my panic I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind: “It’s for Mr Nguyen’s party.”