That stops Chef in his tracks. He growls under his breath, glares at me and bites out “fine” before turning away from me.
I virtually run from the kitchen to escape his wrath, but not before pans start clattering behind me, making me wince.
I’m relieved to get back to the restaurant and hear only mild grumbling from table one. I hope that’s because they’re foreign and unfamiliar with our ways but something tells me that they’re just arseholes. Who completely picks apart a menu to make a new dish? Rich, entitled pricks, that’s who.
Eventually, the food is served and I breathe a sigh of relief. I glance over to Mr Nguyen’s table to see if they’re happy with it and find that they’re all staring at their plates in disgust.
“Hi, is everything okay?” I ask tentatively but with a bright smile on my face.
“No, it is not.” His voice is cold and commanding, cutting through the air with an almost tangible force. My smile falls, and my stomach drops like a stone.
“I’m sorry, Sir. What seems to be the problem?”
“Notseemsto be the problem. Thereisa problem.”
“Of course. What is it? How can I help?”
They begin complaining – about everything. Except the wine. The temperature, the texture, the presentation. The sourness of his tone is almost as overpowering as the scent clinging to him. His presence is a thick, cloying cloud of musk – rich and heavy with a faint undercurrent of something bitter swirling around him in a cloud that’s almost too much to breathe in. His anger, though, makes it worse. The scent becomes acidic, sharp and acrid, like bitter citrus mixed with the weight of wet leather. It almost feels like it’s suffocating the air around me, pressing down on my chest and making it harder to stand in his proximity.
By the end of the night when they’re finally leaving – without giving me a tip – I feel just about ready to cry. My skin feels taut, my heart heavy from the tension, and his presence still lingers like an invisible weight, even after he’s gone.
“You did good kid. Mr Nguyen’s an absolute arsehole. You held your own against him. I’m impressed.”
“Thanks.” I give Alison a tight smile.
If she knows what a nightmare he is, why give me his table on the first night. Some sort of initiation? A test to see if I can hack it? The tension is still coiled in my chest, a tight knot that won’t loosen.
I have to take a deep breath and remind myself that I need this job. I didn’t cry. No one got hurt. It was just one shitty table. Well, two if you count the guy who grabbed me. Not going to lie, my wrist is still a little sore, but that could just be from carrying heavy plates all night long.
“I’m going to head off now, if that’s alright?”
“Of course! Sorry that table made your shift run over. I’ll speak to Pete about putting a little extra in your paycheque to make up for it.”
“No worries. I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”
“Yeah, the evening shift. Well done tonight, Lani. See you.”
I say goodbye, grab my bag from the office and nearly weep with relief that it’s less than a hundred metres from here back to my grandmother’s house. I’m going to have the world’s fastest shower and plan to be fast asleep before my head even hits the pillow, but even as I leave the restaurant, I can’t stop thinking about the way Finn stepped in – calm, controlled, like it never even occurred to him not to.
It shouldn’t matter.
It was one night.
One mistake I’m not planning on repeating.
SIX
FINN
God,I’m so preoccupied by the mysterious beauty who gives me the best sex of my life then steals my shirt and disappears, that I don’t even clock how hard my father and his colleagues are riding that waitress. She didn’t deserve my father’s stupid power games, especially after that pissed up guy grabbed her.
My father was so mad at me for going over and intervening, but it was clear after only a few moments of watching them that no one else was going to help. My alpha instincts scream at me to step in – to shield, to protect. It doesn’t matter if she’s an omega or a beta; it’s in my nature to act. Do I have a white knight complex? Maybe. But I’d rather that than be a black hearted asshole like my father.
I just wish I could’ve helped her when my father starts playing his little power games too. Not that I would have gotten away with saying anything to him once we were home, but a beating might have been worth it to save that poor girl from what must have been the shift from hell.
There’s something off about her, though. Not her demeanour – she’s sharp, defiant even, despite the circumstances. It’s thelack of scent. Everyone has a scent. Betas – faint, human. Alphas – bold, demanding. Omegas – intoxicating, unmistakable. But she has nothing. Like a void.
Scent blockers?