15. Hunter

Chapter 15

Hunter

then

"I can barely keep up," I bemoan as Sean loads another tray of cider cocktails for me to take to the hostess stand.

"Get used to it," he tells me with a rueful smile. "This is pretty typical for the happy hour crowd."

Being one of the newest hostesses at Splice means I've worked nothing but night shifts until today. Typically, those shifts begin at eight, even though the doors don't open until ten.

Today I'm scheduled for an afternoon shift, which covers the after-work and happy-hour crowds.

There are no lists for happy hour. I stupidly thought that meant my job would be easier.

If anything, we're seeing double or triple the number of guests I'm accustomed to because there are no bouncers on duty.

I'm the first point of contact for each and every person who steps through the door, eager to accept their complimentary beverage. The cocktail offerings change with the seasons, I've learned. Now that we're deep into fall, it's an apple-based cider that's as tart as it is refreshing. We sampled it during our staff meeting earlier this week. It's delicious. By the time the meeting ended, Louie and I had made plans to come back to the club in a few nights when neither of us is working so we can properly imbibe.

I take the tray from Sean and precariously lift it with both arms over to the hostess stand.

"I'll bring you another round right away, kid," Sean tells me.

I'm grateful for that. I'm not supposed to leave the hostess stand, and yet we're also not properly staffed for a crowd this size.

Frazzled, I approach the small group of young, smartly dressed professionals waiting at the stand. "Here you are. Sorry about the wait."

After they've taken their drinks and headed deeper into the space, I have a moment to breathe. There's no entertainment during the afternoon happy hours, but one wouldn't know it based on the size and eagerness of the crowd. I've only just caught my breath when the stream of people starts up again. The line is so long that many bypass the hostess stand altogether. I can't say I mind at all.

"You again."

Startled, I snap my head up, and I zero in on the man I now know to be the owner of this establishment.

"Me. Yes. Um, hello…" I stumble over exactly how I'm supposed to address him.

"Sir Spencer?"

He makes a gravelly sound of approval under his breath, then comes to rest both forearms on the hostess stand. "For as much as I like the sound of that, my friends call me Spence."

Stomach twisting, I assess him. "Are you saying I should call you Spence?"

"Fair question. After our last encounter, I'm not quite sure whether to consider you friend or foe. "

He's teasing me, I realize. In the daylight, he's easier to read. The glimmer in his eye and the upturn of one side of his mouth show his age—mid- to late-twenties, if I had to guess.

His jawline is perfectly stubbled once again, almost as if he shaves daily and yet can't keep up with the growth. The five-o'clock shadow suits him, simply adding to the unabashed sex appeal he oozes.

Not that I would ever tell him that.

"I consider you to be the owner of my place of employment," I reply, posture rigid and tone as professional as I can make it. "So you should consider me to be your employee and nothing more." I pick up a glass from the tray at my side. "May I offer you a drink, sir?"

He drags his teeth over his bottom lip, as if trying to hold back a laugh. "Well done, love. But Sean already has my drink waiting."

A glance over my shoulder confirms his statement. Three fingers of amber liquid in a crystal tumbler, no ice, sits waiting on the polished bar top.

"I take it you're well?" he asks, shifting past the hostess stand to reach for the drink at the bar, taking care to not touch me but coming intimately close, nevertheless.

"I am," I say, telling myself not to overthink that move he just made. The space is cramped, but it's the most direct route to the bar, so I suppose it was logical. "Thank you."

"You're finding your way here?" he asks, bringing his glass to his lips. Without taking his eyes off me, he takes a long sip, then lets out a satisfied sigh.

"Um, yes, sir. I'm… Splice is great. I received proper training."

He scowls as he assesses me. "I meant here in London."

Instantly on edge, I snipe, "How do you know I'm not from London?"

His eyebrows shoot up at my tone.

Flovely . What is it about this man that makes me react so instinctively? It's like all my manners evaporate around him. And he very clearly knows it, considering he's smirking down at me once again .

"Just as fiery as the first time we met, aren't you, love?"

He tosses back the rest of his drink, then angles in and places the empty glass on the bar behind me. As he rights himself, his fingertips caress against the ruched fabric at the hip of my dress.

"I'll be up in my office," he says, his rich voice low. "Second floor, past the entrance to the catwalk, at the end of the hall. I'm available if you need anything. Or if you need me , specifically."

I'm tempted to sass back again, but I'm too stunned at the implications of his word choice to actually form a response.

What in the world would I need him for?

I watch, bewildered, as he walks away from the hostess stand without looking back.

It's not until a throat clears nearby that I blink back to the moment and dig deep for the wherewithal to do my job. With an apologetic smile, I offer the next group their complimentary drinks.

Throughout the entire shift, every time there's a lull, every moment in which I'm not welcoming guests, refilling punch, or prepping the guest list for that night, his words play back in my mind.

He's available if I need him , specifically.

Was that an invitation?