DECEPTION | MAFIA ROMANCE | SMUT

CHAPTER SIX

Whatever floated that man's boat.

Maybe he's confused me with an instrument or mistaken the knee pit as an unmentionable.

Either way, I hope he falls over and humiliates himself the next time he stands up, flat on his face, snaps an arm, an elbow, or the old joystick.

Jotting down everyone's order, I sidestepped, an unsubtle hint for him to back off, to experience overt rejection in the eye of judgement, and compressed the all-consuming urge to cry.

I do not have the faintest idea why his inappropriateness bothered me so much. I have experienced far worse than an unwanted touch before.

Yet, I felt violated, intruded upon, and extremely disrespected. I am not here to be palmed and pawed by deviant men of expectations.

So ignorant and warped to assume prosperousness sealed the deal or guaranteed a good time.

Last I checked, lower-class folks did not prance around with "desperate" or "freebie" slapped on their forehead.

"And what of the desert?" His pale hand moved to the white linen tablecloth to feel the fibres under his fingertips. "I have an insatiable taste for glacé with a hint of salt."

Please, I might actually vomit.

"Strawberry, fennel seed and rose," I blurted out from memory, the sexual innuendo flying straight over my head. "Lemon and passionfruit tart." And a slap in the face if you do not contain yourself. "I will send the sommelier over with your wine."

To think, I had to tend to a table of pretentiousness for two hours. If I survive another thirty minutes in the man's presence, I will reward myself with a bottle of wine—bought on the cheap at the corner store as an alternative to the extortionately priced restaurant—to celebrate or see what the fuss is about. I hadn't quite decided the reasoning, just that his eagerness to imbibe grape-flavoured effervescence piqued interest.

The unrivalled restaurant, established in a popular five-star hotel in Knightsbridge, offered fine dining in a warm, welcoming environment of modern luxury, floor-to-ceiling windows, views of the city and a renowned network of Michelin-starred chefs.

I headed to the busy kitchen with an emotional lump of sadness and nostalgia in my throat and tears of regret in my eyes. Benjamin, my brother, my twin, the brilliant yet undiscovered chef, sprung to mind as I read customer orders to head chef Garret.

My brother belonged to the values of excellence and talent alongside the most respected and acclaimed chefs in London. Not me. I am underqualified, talentless and passionless—a fraudster in formal, tight-fitted uniform and toe-pinching shoes (I definitely outpaced myself this morning, too much jogging, not enough sleep or hydration, blisters for days).

I do not have what it takes to be in the service of wealthy people, to cook professionally or serve drinks without splashing champagne onto someone's lap. I am mediocre. Average. Forgettable. A woman whose only experience is stocking chillers with fresh fruit smoothies, pouring coffee into Sandrine mugs, prepping deli counters and leaving cryptic messages on chalkboard menus. I liked to decorate, hang suncatchers in the window and tapestries on the wall and polaroid photos on the door, a story for each customer through the eye of the lens.

"I just earned the best tip." Sade followed me to the long-stretched walnut veneered bar. "Hey, what's wrong with your leg? You walk with a limp. Did something happen?"

"I ran too hard this morning and have friction blisters to prove it." My poor toes were on fire, each step painful and effortful. "It's okay. I will soak my feet in Epson salt and warm water when I get home."