His Pawn Read online

  “Red, white, and boobed. Seriously, Blake?” Blowing a black strand of hair out of my blue eyes, I yank at my tight blue shorts. They barely reach the top of my thighs. Twisting to look at my backside, I make a face. “Can you see my butt cheeks?”

  Blake rolls her eyes. “Why do you care? Your boobs and that wedgie will launch a thousand tips.” In spite of my threadbare nerves, I can’t help but laugh, prompting her to continue. “You look fine, I promise. Better than fine. And besides, don’t forget I saw you in that sexy yellow monokini at Hilton Head last summer. You had ass for days in that thing.”

  To drive her point home, she swings her hips and winks.

  I had spent most of our spur of the moment, woe-is-me-I-just-ended-a-relationship-with-a-jerk, vacation last June in nothing more than a bathing suit. Still, showing ass for days at my job is a far cry from vacationing at the beach, where the chances of running into someone I knew were slim.

  But hey, at least I can proudly say I’m gainfully employed now.

  When I received the call a couple days ago asking if I still wanted the position at 202, I was so stunned I’d gotten the job I didn’t stop to consider the skimpy uniforms. I witnessed them firsthand last Friday night but figured I’d never crawl into one since I royally screwed up my interview.

  While the other women vying for the two open positions wore jeans and trendy tops that showed off just as much as the 202 uniform, I went in looking like something that tripped out of a Brooks Brothers ad. Then, I’d eye-humped one of the patrons and stumbled through the actual interview itself. Chad, the owner, wasn’t impressed when I admitted my only work experience was filing paperwork in my dad’s office and publishing travel articles. Writing about how breathtaking Chichén Itzá is in person doesn’t exactly translate to fantastic drunk-people skills.

  Somehow, though, I’d gotten a call back.

  “A trial basis,” Janelle, the assistant manager, informed me when she called to ask if I could start tonight. “But you’re, like, really pretty and Chad seems to like you. That usually means you’re golden.”

  “The tips are supposed to be incredible,” I tell Blake, relaying what Janelle said while trying to convince myself to go through with this. Running my fingers through my ebony waves, I pile the tresses into a high ponytail on top of my head. I grab a few hairpins from the shelf above the toilet and hold the clips between my teeth as I smooth back the shorter strands around the crown of my head. “If it’s as good as they say, I won’t have any problem making my first payment to the school next month.”

  “You’ve got this.” Blake glances at her watch. She’s the only person I know our age who still wears one, but she swears traditional timepieces are making a comeback. “What time is your shift?”

  “Seven to one,” I say, pulling a hairpin from my mouth and sliding it in place. “Which will be perfect when classes start again.”

  “Hmm. Well, it’s six. You might want to hurry up so you’re not late on the first day.” She starts to walk away but pauses and arches an eyebrow. “You don’t think you’ll run into him, do you?”

  Automatically, my thoughts flit to the beautiful man I’d locked eyes with last week. I still blame his penetrating, dark stare on my interview jitters. Since I hadn’t mentioned him to Blake, it’s obvious to whom she’s referring. “My dad?”

  “Yep, Senator Voldemort himself.”

  “202 isn’t exactly his scene.” The sports bar caters to the younger Capitol Hill crowd, so it’s the type of environment that would instantly turn my father off. Which is excellent because of the huge fight he and I had over Thanksgiving. Like always, he had the last word. Only this time, he coldly informed me the semester that just ended would be the last he paid of my tuition.

  “I doubt I’ll ever see him there,” I say as I secure the final hairpin.

  “Good.” She picks a piece of pink lint from the multi-colored end of her ponytail and flicks it on the bathroom floor. “Fuck that mean bastard.”

  “Yep. Fuck him.” Linking my arm through hers, I lead her into the living room, where the twill wide leg pants and gray sweater I plan on wearing over my uniform hang over the back of the sofa. Grabbing the pants, I sit on the edge of the couch and wiggle into them. “Where are you heading looking so hot?”

  After unabashedly filling me in on her eighties party and hook-up plans for the evening—she’s heading home to Massachusetts on Monday for the rest of winter break, so she has to get her fun in now—she gets her bag and keys from the kitchen counter. “All right, I’m out, but if you need anything, give me a call?”

  Laughing, I look over my shoulder as she shrugs into her jacket. “When I drop my first tray you’ll be the first to know.”

  “Only if your boob pops out in the process.” Swinging the front door open, she waggles her eyebrows. “Have fun, my darling.”

  With Blake gone, I finish dressing. Recheck my appearance in the bathroom mirror because I’ve nervously licked off most of my lipgloss. And then, I head out to my first day, praying this works out.

  After Chad gives me the rundown of everything I already know—I’m a temporary employee for the next week, no dating customers, no drinking or smoking in uniform—he has me shadow Janelle for the rest of the night.

  I follow close behind the redhead, sweating like crazy and hanging on to her every word as she greets customers. Decorated with a patriotic theme, hence the red, white, and blue getup I’m having a hard time not tugging at, 202 hasn’t been around for very long. Blake said it opened over the summer, so this is only its fifth or sixth month in business. Still, Janelle is completely at ease with her surroundings, treating everyone like regulars and occasionally sprinkling in a sexy smile or flirtatious wink.

  If I do the same, I’ll look like I’m twitching and somebody will call an ambulance.

  “Soooo, Chad wouldn’t tell me much about you.” Janelle tilts her body toward me as she takes a tray of drinks from the bar. “Where did you waitress before, Eleanor?”

  I’ve never liked being called Eleanor because it sounds so formal. To my parents’ irritation, my older brother just called me Elle, so that’s how I’ve always introduced myself. I don’t correct her as I dip my head and cringe at her question.

  “Actually, I haven’t,” I say.

  She stops mid-stride. “Haven’t what? Waitressed?” I offer her a guilty look and she lets out a soft whistle. “Wow. You must have really impressed him.”

  Maybe. That or he was simply intrigued. During my interview, Chad did the usual double take when he saw my last name is Courtney. He’d come right out and asked if I was any relation to the senator, so I told him the truth. I hadn’t admitted that I’m the man’s daughter, but what are the chances Chad didn’t look us up the second I left?

  He would have found the magazine stuff—travel articles I’ve written but also last summer’s spread in DC Living of my parents McLean estate. The photo shoot Dad had guilt-tripped me into being a part of. And by typing in my name—and linking my father—Chad would have seen mentions of my old performance awards in dressage, three-year-old photos of a sullen-looking me with my father as he toured the state, and even a small, sarcastically-written article wishing “Senator Courtney’s lovely daughter, Eleanor Sutton Courtney, a happy twenty-first as she barhops around D.C.”

  Now, I wish I had fibbed and said I didn’t realize there was a Senator Courtney.

  Janelle hands me the tray and adjusts one of my wrists. “Girl, you’re gonna drench yourself in beer and stink all night if you keep holding it like that. And don’t look like you’re constipated, it turns customers off.” I try my best to relax my expression until she gives me a brisk nod. She jabs a star-spangled nail toward the table we’re headed to. “All right, I have to pee, but you can handle this one on your own. Meet me over at the bar after you’re done.”

  Before I can protest, she sashays off, flame-colored hair flapping behind her and half the males in the room craning their necks just to get a
look at her ass.

  Good, that means they won’t be paying attention to me when I fall flat on my face. I take a deep breath and exhale. Tell myself I can do this. That I can be good at this and then Dad can suck it.

  One more inhale and I walk over to the table of twenty-something women, holding the tray like Janelle instructed. I’m oblivious to their conversation as I smile sweetly and pass around drinks, but just as I scoot the last Rum Paul—202’s version of a Texas Margarita—toward its tipsy recipient, she giggle-whispers, “I’m serious, I would bang his freakin’ brains out.”

  The woman across from her glances over her shoulder then rolls her eyes. “He looks more interested in his beer than pussy, but good luck, sweetie.”

  Suppressing a grin, I tuck the empty tray under my arm and start to head back to the bar, but not before sneaking a peek at their target.

  And damn, what a target he is. A sexy, stomach-clenching, goosebump-inducing accumulation of everything a man should be, rolled into a traditional black business suit and immaculately knotted blue tie. Once I realize I’ve seen him before, it’s impossible to look away. He’s the same man I noticed the night of my interview. Judging by the pushed in chair opposite him, he’s alone tonight.

  He lifts his chin from his phone and freezes when our eyes lock. And then, the edges of his crinkle. Damn. Damn. Flushing, I start to head in the other direction, but he crooks two fingers. When I stupidly look around and then back to him, he mouths, “Yes, you.”

  The closer I get, the sexier he gets.

  He has those features that give a woman no other choice but forget what she’s doing. Bronze skin; a strong, chiseled jawline that’s already shadowed, even though he likely shaved just this morning; and a nose and mouth that look like they were sculpted by Zeus himself. From his long legs, I’m guessing he’s over six feet tall. It’s not like I’m short—I’m five-six without heels—but if he were standing, I would look small next to him. And if he were standing, I’d have to tilt back my head to meet the intense brown eyes studying me as I tentatively approach.

  “What can I get for you?” I try to mimic Janelle’s energy, but it falls flat.

  Still, he grins. Oh, God, the way his lips move is absolutely beautiful. A breathtaker. “My waitress seems to have disappeared, would you mind?”

  “Mind what?” I force out because staring into his dark irises continues to wrench the air from my lungs. My heart pounds wildly, and I can’t move. Can hardly think in complete sentences.

  “Getting my check for me.” He gestures at his empty beer mug, giving me a flash of a polished steel Tag Heuer watch that must have cost a fortune. That’s the only jewelry he wears. I feel a silly flutter between my chest and stomach because there’s no ring—or tan lines to indicate he’s hiding one in his pocket.

  God, what’s the matter with me?

  “Yeah.” My voice is so husky it sounds foreign to my ears. “I mean, sure. No problem.” When I turn to slink away, his low murmur stops me, rolling over me like honey.

  “You’re new here.”

  “Yes.”

  “Graham Delaney.”

  I face him, letting the tangible energy radiating from him slam into me. “What?” My eyes trace the slow, seductive smile that tugs his full lips. No man should have lips like that, inviting and absurdly kissable.

  “My name. Graham Delaney.”

  It takes me a second to place the name. To my father’s disappointment, I hate discussing politics. Dad says it’s a crime that a journalism student avoids dinner table political discussions like the plague, but I’ve heard of the New York senator. Usually with words like young, hot, and bachelor attached to it.

  “I’m Elle.”

  “Elle.” He looks me over quickly, the heat from his swift perusal scorching through my uniform, which he seems to see completely through. I furrow my brow and respond with that awful, nervous habit of racing my tongue over my upper lip.

  This man knows my father—is in the same party as my father—and I’m licking my lips at him. Might as well have ripped off my underwear and thrown them on the table.

  To my mortification, he answers my lip-licking and panty-ripping thoughts with a wider, cockier grin.

  “About that check, Elle?” He emphasizes my name, his full lips and tongue wrapping around that single syllable and twisting it into something sensual and lovely. I’m not entirely certain if it’s because he’s unnerved me, or because for a second, I can easily imagine our lips and tongues mingling together, but I tighten my grip on the tray.

  “Right, of course. I’ll get that for you now.”

  “Is everything all right over here?” I tip my head back and swallow hard when I see Janelle strutting our way. She rests an elbow on the table and smiles frostily at Graham. “Nice to see you again, Senator.”

  He twitches his lips. “Likewise.”

  “I was just about to grab his check,” I blurt out, and she gives me a strange look.

  “Sure you were.” She bobs her head to the crowded bar. “I’ll show you how to ring him up.” We’re barely out of hearing range when she spins and says, “Just warning you—that guy is a shitty tipper, so beware.”

  I frown. Not even an hour ago, I witnessed her shrug off a five dollar tip on a hundred dollar bill. I watch as she pulls up Graham’s ticket, memorizing the process. “Thanks for the heads up. Hopefully, I won’t ever have him in my section.” Because after the stare down he and I just had, I’m more concerned about his effect on my body as opposed to my wallet.

  “If you’re lucky.” She snatches the receipt from the printer and passes it to me. “Come on, we better drop this at his table and get back to work. Still a lot for you to learn and not much time.”

  Senator Delaney doesn’t give me another glance when I hand him his check but walking away, I feel his eyes trained on my back. I force myself to relax and throw my effort into learning the ins and outs of working at 202.

  By the end of the weekend, I’m on my own, waiting on what Janelle calls “a mini-section.” It doesn’t take long to realize she wasn’t BSing when she bragged about the type of tips she made.

  At the rate I’m going, I won’t have any trouble making tuition payments.

  But the more money I pocket, the more I think about the shitty tipper. Graham Delaney. Every night I come to work, I can’t resist looking for him. Wondering if I’ll feel that undeniable electricity when we see each other again.

  If we see each other again.

  I’ve just about given up on him returning, but exactly one week after my first day at 202, there he is. Sitting in my section. Filling the air with that intensity that makes my thoughts scatter in every direction.

  Too bad for me, it’s the same night Chad decides to sack me.

  THREE

  ELLE

  “I’m sorry, but you’re not working out for me, Eleanor.”

  Chad gives me the bad news split seconds after my butt makes contact with the seat cushion opposite him. My muscles go rigid and I lock my knees together to stop the tremor from coursing through me. I search his expression, but he’s looking down at the mess of vendor invoices strewn across his desk.

  When Janelle said he wanted to talk, I didn’t consider the possibility of a negative conversation. That self-assured side of me figured he was going to make me a full-fledged waitress and send me off with a pat on the back and a “Good work, kiddo.” Now, I’m damn sure I’ll end this night jobless. Clenching the armrests of my seat, I lean close to his desk.

  “Do you mean the hours I’m working?” I ask, voice hopeful. Nausea rises in my throat, but I make myself continue. “I’m completely on board with changing my schedule.”

  I want this job. Need it. Holding my breath, I wait for his answer.

  He scratches his short-cropped, salt-and-pepper hair and glimpses up from the invoices. I wince at the reluctance behind his eyes. “Look, Eleanor, you’re a brilliant girl, but you’re not...” He sighs and lifts his shoulder in a h
alf shrug. “Put it this way, I can tell you’re a Courtney.”

  What’s that supposed to mean? Plucking at the round neck of my tank top to fan myself, I drag my tongue over my lips and carefully weigh my next words. “Chad, I’ve been nothing but professional and courteous to all my customers. If someone’s complained about me, or if I’ve offended anyone, I’d like to know so I can apologize.”

  He waves his hands from side to side and shakes his head briskly. “No, no, that’s not it at all! We haven’t had any complaints about your attitude. It’s your speed.” He takes in the look on my face—that’s probably crestfallen—and offers me an apologetic smile. “We’re a busy place, and I need a server who can get the orders out faster. That’s why I have to let you go. It’s nothing against you.”

  I want to tell him I can learn to be faster. That if he gives me another chance—just one more damn week—I’ll prove myself to him. I’ve never quit on something I’m committed to, and I am dedicated to doing a good job. But that traditional Courtney pride kicks in. I straighten my spine. “Don’t worry. I understand where you’re coming from.”

  And I do, but that doesn’t make the rejection sting any less. Especially since this one means I’m out of a job that has, thus far, given me amazing tips. “Thank you for giving me a chance.”

  “You’re a journalism student, right?” At my nod, he continues in a suggestive voice that sets my teeth on edge, “That’s what I thought. You have so many connections, Elle, no doubt you’ll make the best of them.”

  Statements like that have followed me around my whole life.

  Didn’t get into the school you wanted? Have your dad give them a call.

  You didn’t get that internship? Do those bastards know who your father is?

  Robert Courtney gets shit done. Period.

  “Sure.” Even though I can think of a million things I’ll do before asking for Dad’s help, including stripping, reality TV, and panhandling. Reaching across the desk, I shake my former employer’s hand—a professional gesture that softens his expression. “Thank you again, Chad.”