Page 3 of In the Frame

And he’s really, really angry.

He’s soaked, flushed red with fury. And, unfortunately, covered in crumbs of glass.

I’m so getting fired. It’s probably the best outcome for the bargoers.

But right now, I don’t care about getting sacked. Instead, I stare into the eyes of the furious man, unable to look away. They’re a magnificent green, even in this light.

I’m beyond mortified.

“The glass—” I gesture lamely at the table and then at him, because even though the safety glass shattered on impact, it’s absolutely everywhere.

Cocktails mixed with glass drip off the table onto the floor in a rapidly expanding puddle. Or a sea. Other nearby customers gawp and look at me, including the next table of sporty people.

If I’m not murdered in the next three seconds, I must get a mop and a broom and a stack of bar cloths to clean this up.

And it no longer matters which table is Table 23—because I now have wetter, sharper problems.

Chapter Two

Despite the thudding of the bass, equaled by the thudding of my heart in my chest from sheer adrenaline, I swear I can hear each drop of murdered cocktail fall from the table and hit the floor.

Frozen in place, clutching at the round serving tray against my chest, I stare at the suit. Well, the man. The gorgeous, angry man, surrounded by the backlit silhouettes of his friends at his table.

I stare, frozen.

“Florian, it was an accident.”

The built man with a trim beard closest to the suit puts a calming hand on his arm. The man—Florian—I swear is frothing at the mouth like a frustrated Thoroughbred horse. Or a rabid dog. Whatever.

Danger still lingers in the man’s eyes.

Are people really called Florian? It sounds like something right out of Wuthering Heights, which is up my mate Aubrey’s alley and not mine. Maybe I’ll ask him sometime over drinks. Not right now. Right now, I⁠—

“I’m fucking soaked, Billy.” Florian, of the smoldering looks and unquiet, broody rage, stares me down. Big Heathcliff energy.

I shrink even further behind the tray.

Billy just laughs, looking none the worse for wear as he considers his friend. “Looks good on you. Like an advert for swimwear.”

“Fuck off.” Florian’s unimpressed while his mates laugh. They set to work tilting chairs forward to lean against the table, letting the liquid run off them.

Why hadn’t the target of my spill been Billy? He seems good-natured about it all. He practically glows.

“Ohmygod.” Kat rushes over, the usual server in this section. She must have been on break. Which technically means I’m next on break, but forget that right now. “What happened? Never mind what happened—let’s get this mess cleaned up right away.”

“I’m so sorry,” I blurt to Florian, the crowd, and Kat too. “I don’t actually know what happened. It happened so fast.”

Billy nods in my general direction. “Some tosser bumped you. I saw it. Shit happens.”

“Shit… happens?” Florian’s dark brows press together. Pained, he rubs his forehead. “It’s his job to be certain shit doesn’t happen.”

“Just be careful,” I say urgently to Florian in a rush as Kat hurries off. “Because of the broken glass.”

In return, his scowl deepens. Glancing away, I flutter somewhat uselessly around the table as we all stand in a large cocktail puddle. I fight the urge to pick glass fragments from Florian’s clothes, who carelessly brushes himself off in an effort to rid himself of the tiny pieces, but the shattered glass sticks to his wet suit. I grip the tray more tightly in case my hands start to wander independently to pick glass from him.

“I’ll get you another table.” I’m full of assurances now that I’m moving on from the gawping phase. “And you won’t need to pay for your bill, we’ll cover that. And—I’m so sorry. Did I say watch out for the glass—I mean, it’s not going to cut you. It shouldn’t. It’s safety glass. Shit. Did it cut you?” I stare at Florian.

He ignores my last comments.