Point of Submission Read online

  She had just taken the meal order for one of the psuedo-jock tables when Allison, another waitress, came up beside her. “I know you're full, but there's someone in my section who specifically asked for you.”

  Cassandra sighed. This happened periodically, and it was more annoying than flattering, especially on a busy night like this. Plus, Allison needed the tips—her boyfriend had moved out, and she was taking extra shifts to be able to pay her bills. It was most likely Walter, or Stan—one of the sweet old regulars—who had asked for her.

  “Did you tell whoever it is that I couldn't take anyone else?”

  “Yup. I tried. He insisted. And I'm pissed, because not only could I use the tip, but he could be David Gandy's twin, and now I won't be able to flirt with him. Although he is a little young for me.”

  Holy shit. It couldn't be.

  Cassandra felt a fluttering that started in her chest and proceeded south. She stared at Allison's round, indignant face. “Sorry,” she managed. “I'll go tell him myself that I'm full.”

  “That's just awesome,” Allison huffed. “Love being second choice. Good for the ole self-esteem.”

  Cassandra threw her a quick, apologetic smile as she hurried into the red room and Allison's section. She scanned the tables: families, an elderly couple, two teenage boys, a noisy group of women who happened to be staring at the man in question. Even though he was facing away from her, she knew immediately that it was Carlo Leone.

  He was wearing white again, but this time it was a casual jersey—short-sleeved, with a pair of dark jeans and loafer-style shoes. He held the menu with his arms bent in front of him, and as Cassandra approached his table, she could see the taut muscles beneath his skin, the fabric of his shirt stretched ever so slightly. Many women were turned on by a guy's ass or the bulge in front, and while Cassandra appreciated both, it was the upper body that piqued her interest and fueled her desire. She was fond of broad shoulders that you could imagine holding on to, muscular arms you could picture wrapped around you...

  Cassandra slammed on the brakes before her thoughts went careening out of control. It had been a long time since she'd had sex. She knew that wasn't particularly normal (maybe it was even unhealthy), but there was no way in hell she wanted to risk getting involved with a guy again. She'd learned the hard way that men were about lust, not love...fucking, not feelings. Dylan had demonstrated this by cheating on her, the short-term relationship before him had ended badly, and her own father had had multiple affairs while her mother bore it in silence, until he finally left her for another woman. He had basically dropped off the face of the earth, which was fine with Cassandra. She didn't care if she ever saw him again.

  Being alone was not always nice—in fact, much of the time it sucked. Cassandra would occasionally catch herself glancing at other couples who seemed genuinely happy and secure. But alone worked best for her, because alone meant an intact heart. Alone was safe.

  So even though Carlo was sitting here in the pub, even though he looked hot just from the back, for God's sake, Cassandra steeled herself as she stopped at his table.

  He looked up at her with a slow, lazy grin that softened the angles of his face, with eyes that seemed to say, I've been expecting you. What took you so long?

  She squared her shoulders, willed herself to speak smoothly, evenly, as if it wasn't at all surprising for him to be here. “Mr. Leone.”

  “That's a bit formal for this type of establishment, don't you think?” His smile broadened. His face was deeply tanned against his shirt.

  Cassandra fought the urge to smile back. “All right,” she acknowledged. “So...Carlo. I heard that you wanted me to wait on you.”

  “You surprise me. I expected you to ask me what I'm doing here.” His eyes were dancing.

  She was absolutely not going to let on that she wanted to know if he was here to see her. Or that she was wondering how he found out where she worked. If he wasn't so goddamned charming, she'd be completely creeped out. “It would appear you're here to eat.”

  He flashed her a dazzling smile. “Appearances can be deceiving.”

  Was this a warning? She shuddered inwardly, but it wasn't entirely from apprehension. From the moment she had met Carlo Leone, she had realized there was more to him than met the eye.

  “Mr. Leone—Carlo—I came over to tell you that my section is full. We take turns...you know, to be fair. And it's Allison's turn.”

  “But Allison isn't the one I want.” His expression turned serious, determined. “I want you.”

  Fuuuuck. Cassandra felt like her face would burst into flame. Cold things...think of cold things! Ice cubes and Slushees and Alaska...lying in an ice cube-filled bathtub in Alaska drinking a Slushee—in January.

  “I'm betting you can make an exception. I'll be happy to tip Allison as well.” He was looking at her expectantly.

  She took a deep breath. “I'll ask her.” I'll aska...Alaska...cold, freezing, frigid state...Jesus Christ, she was losing it. What was wrong with her? Why didn't she just say no and walk away—be done with this, with him? Cassandra quickly averted her gaze, fearing she might find the answer in his eyes.

  She found Allison at the bar waiting on a drink order. “Hey. This is really awkward, but that guy is being a pain in the ass and wants me to wait on him.”

  Allison snorted, shaking her head. “You seriously think I'm going to believe that bullshit? That you think he's a pain in the ass? A little credit here, please.”

  “Well, he's just being really—”

  “Hot?”

  “Persistent.” Cassandra could feel herself getting more and more stressed until she felt like one giant clusterfuck. “He said he'd tip you.”

  Allison waved her hand dismissively and grinned. “I'm just giving you crap, Cass. It's fine. As long as I get the next hottie in your section.”

  Feeling a bit more at ease, Cassandra smiled back and nodded. “Deal.”

  She decided she'd take a different approach with Carlo. The recent run-in with Dylan had left her feeling more confident, almost empowered, and she wanted to show some of that to Mr. Leone. She was rattled enough tonight with all her tables; she certainly didn't need any more stress from one of the customers, no matter how gorgeous he was.

  Cassandra retied her apron and smoothed the wrinkles on her way back to Carlo's table. He looked serene, satisfied—the expression of a man who had gotten what he wanted. She suspected this was typical for him.

  “How do you do it?” he asked abruptly.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Manage to look absolutely breathtaking in a waitressing uniform. Or in work clothes at a horse stable, for that matter.”

  She reached up self-consciously to smooth her hair and then quickly put her hand inside her apron pocket, remembering that it was a bit uncouth to be touching your hair when you were serving food to the public. Be professional, she reminded herself. All business. Customer...waitress...dining establishment. “What can I get you to drink?”

  “I'd really like to see you with your hair down. Maybe fanned across a pillow. I'm sure you're even more stunning that way.”

  Cassandra took the order pad and pen from her apron and wrote in neat, small letters the word fuck so that she wouldn't spontaneously combust. Clearing her throat, she drew tiny scribbles over the word until it was unrecognizable. The cooks probably wouldn't have appreciated that sentiment.

  As much as she tried to fight it, her gaze was drawn back to Carlo's mouth, his eyes. He was studying her intently. She repeated her question.

  A pause. And then in his face, something close to delight. Instantly, Cassandra realized the reason. He knew. He knew he was getting to her.

  “Your drink order,” she said again, mentally cursing herself for the weakness in her voice.

  “What do you have on draft?”

  “There's a list on the table.”

  “I'd rather have you tell me.”

  Cassandra gritted her teeth. “We have sixty diffe
rent beers on draft.”

  He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, the fabric of his shirt tightening across his chest. He appeared to be waiting.

  “I do have other customers.”

  Carlo grinned and reached for the drink list. “Okay...I'll stop harassing you.” He ran a finger lightly down the laminated card, and Cassandra found herself blushing furiously. “I'll have a Sam Summer. Tall.”

  Cassandra gripped her pen tightly as she jotted down the order, aware that he was watching her hand. She willed it to be steady.

  “Cassandra!” Reggie, one of the cooks, calling her name to pick up an order. She'd never been so glad to hear his surly voice.

  “I'll be back with your beer,” she told Carlo, pleased that her voice now sounded a bit stronger. Just hearing Reggie yelling for her had jarred her back into reality.

  Allison was in the kitchen checking the order slips. “This for the Little Leaguers?”

  Cassandra laughed. “Yes.”

  “I'll help you. Pretty girl like you needs some protection with those bozos.”

  “Thanks. They haven't been too obnoxious.”

  “Ha! You mean yet. They're only on their second round.”

  The two of them carried trays to the softball team tables. The men had gotten a little more raucous since she'd last been over.

  “Heyyy, beautiful—are you on the menu?” One of the players, a rugged man with blond hair and a goatee, reached a meaty hand toward Cassandra. “Cause I'd like a taste.”

  Allison lifted an eyebrow and shot her a here they go glance. Cassandra busied herself with distributing the platters of burgers, ribs and pulled pork, taking care not to brush against any of the inebriated players.

  As Allison set down a plate in front of the goateed man, he grabbed her wrist. “No, no, sweetheart—I don't want you serving me. You need to lose some weight. I want the hot one.”

  Cassandra watched in disgust as Allison's face colored in embarrassment. Son of a bitch! She gritted her teeth as she moved around the table. Customer or not, she didn't want that asshole to get away with humiliating Allison.

  “Hey, sexy...we need another pitcher over here.” Blond Goatee was grinning at her.

  Cassandra gave a curt nod, not trusting herself to respond verbally. She waited for Allison to finish emptying her tray and the two walked away together, Allison's mouth set in a firm, straight line.

  “What a total prick,” Cassandra hissed.

  “I'm two for two tonight...first rejected by the David Gandy lookalike and now slammed by Sweaty Balls.” Allison's tone was light, but the expression on her face told a different story.

  “That has-been is not going to get away with it.” Cassandra gave Allison a quick hug before heading to the bar for Carlo's beer and the pitcher for the softball table. On the way to Carlo's table, she tried to clamp down on the renegade flutters leaping inside of her.

  Carlo was swiping his finger across the screen of his iPhone as she approached. She found herself staring at that finger, wondering, and then cursed herself. “Here you go,” she said, setting down his glass.

  He looked up at her, his face instantly changing from disinterested to attentive. “Thank you.” His brow furrowed. “Everything all right? You look like something's bothering you.”

  “Let's just say I'd rather shovel manure than serve people.”

  “Trouble with a customer?”

  “An occupational hazard,” Cassandra said, half-smiling. “Nothing I can't handle. I'll be back to take your meal order. The specials are listed here.” She took a step closer to him to open up his menu, brushing his bare arm with hers. The feeling was almost electric. She heard Carlo make a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and an exhale.

  She fumbled to find the specials list as she snuck a glance at his hands resting on either side of the menu. They were beautiful hands—strong-looking and tanned, with perfectly-manicured nails. For a split second, she imagined how they would feel in her hair, up her shirt...

  The flutters again.

  “I'll be back to take your order,” she repeated hastily and headed to the bar without looking at him. Goddamn her for being weak. No better way to strengthen her resolve against men than to actively despise one of them—namely, Mr. Blond Goatee a/k/a Sweaty Balls.

  “Pitcher of Bud Light, please,” she told Eddie, the bartender. He was whistling and smiling, as usual—the epitome of everything a bartender should be. Cassandra didn't know how he did it—dealing with needy and often obnoxious people sharing their woes, or worse, hitting on him. But he actually seemed to enjoy it. “Think of it this way, Cass,” he had once told her. “I get to cheer people up. I get paid for it. I sometimes get paid really well for it. And I can go home feeling like my life is just about perfect, compared to those poor bastards sitting at the bar.”

  Eddie, Cassandra decided, was the exception to the rule when it came to men. He was kind and genuine and crazy about his fiancee. “Place is hopping tonight, huh?” he commented, as he tipped the pitcher and filled it.

  She nodded. “Oh, yes.” She thanked him, took the pitcher with two hands and went back to the softball table. Blond Goatee was in the middle of telling a very loud story about the game, most likely embellished, while the others listened eagerly. He clearly enjoyed being the center of attention. Well, that would continue—although not in a way he might appreciate.

  Cassandra's pulse quickened as she approached the table. She didn't want to make trouble, certainly didn't want to piss off her manager, Bruce, who was all about customer service and keeping people coming back—but the way Blond Goatee had embarrassed Allison...she couldn't let him get away with that. This wasn't revenge; it was justice.

  “Here you go,” she announced innocently, leaning across the table in front of Blond Goatee. He looked up just as the contents of the pitcher spilled onto him, the cold beer soaking into his shirt and darkening his white uniform.

  “What the fuck!” he spluttered, red-faced, as his teammates burst into laughter.

  Cassandra stifled a grin, putting a hand to her mouth and exclaiming in mock chagrin,“Oh my God, I'm so sorry...I don't know how that happened!” She hastily pulled napkins from her apron pocket and offered them to him. As their eyes met, she saw in his steely gaze that he knew. And he was livid.

  Shrugging off the uneasy feeling creeping up her spine, Cassandra apologized again and went to order another pitcher from Eddie. He raised his eyebrow when she told him she'd spilled it, and she hurried away before he could question her. She didn't look at Blond Goatee as she carefully set down the replacement pitcher in front of another player who was still chuckling about the spill.

  Before heading back to Carlo, Cassandra checked on her two other tables. She was already feeling tired and still had three hours to go before close.

  She addressed Carlo in her waitressing voice—cool, professional. “What would you like?”

  He regarded her thoughtfully, a smile playing with his lips. “I'm looking at it.”

  She struggled to maintain her composure. If any of the jockstraps in the other room had made that comment, she would have been offended. But with Carlo, it was entirely different. His bold banter got to her—as much as she didn't want to admit it.

  But she was determined to fight the feeling. “Are you ready to order?”

  “Did you take care of the occupational hazard?”

  “All set, yes.”

  His gaze lingered on her mouth. God, he was beautiful. There was something deep in his slate-colored eyes—something stirring, soulful—and Cassandra found herself wanting to know more.

  Carlo continued to look at her for a few more seconds, contemplating, and then took his eyes off her to look at the menu. “Do you recommend the Sadie?”

  The Sadie was a burger named after Bruce's beloved chocolate Lab—loaded with sauteed mushrooms, onions, sauerkraut and pepperjack cheese. “I hear it's very good. But I've never tried it—I don't eat meat.”

&nbs
p; “I have to say I'm quite devastated to hear that.” Carlo's dimple deepened as he winked at her.

  Do not react. “I gave it up quite a while ago.”

  “Really.”

  “Yes. I'm much better off.” She raised her chin. He was looking at her almost hungrily. Cassandra felt heat rush to her cheeks—and other parts of her.

  “I'll take the Sadie. But cheddar instead of pepperjack, the steamed carrots instead of fries, and an ice water with one lime and one lemon.”

  Cassandra wrote down his order. “You're rather particular, aren't you?”

  “I'm very particular. About everything I choose in life.”

  As she took his menu and walked away, Cassandra was shocked to find herself the tiniest bit hopeful that she might be among his chosen.

  chapter six ~ Carlo

  The British-style pub in downtown Lititz with its early 20th century style was a favorite of Carlo's, and even though he'd already eaten at Tucker's a couple of hours before, he didn't hesitate when Brockton Dall called to ask if he could meet for a drink. In keeping with the pub style of service, they ordered at the bar and sat at a corner table. Planning the fall sales meeting in San Antonio had left the two of them little time for personal discussion, although Carlo had been eager to speak privately with Brock. The two men had been colleagues for the past several years when Carlo's stepfather had recruited Brock from Columbia Valve (his competitors referred to it as “stealing”) and made him vice-president of Miller. When Scott Miller died and Carlo moved from president to the CEO's position, Brock was promoted to president. Known to be charismatic and cunning, he was a summa cum laude Princeton graduate. His impressive stature at six foot four, thick blond hair and green eyes commanded attention, as was the case tonight in the pub. Carlo was well aware of several women staring at them. It would be easy, he knew, to buy a drink for a woman now and be in bed with her later tonight. But that was not how he, or Brock, operated. They preferred a challenge, in both business and pleasure.