6
Sebastian stopped, as surprised to see me as I was to see him. He must have dawdled in the library longer than I’d thought.
We stared at each other for several seconds before I finally managed to do the appropriate thing and extend the serving tray out to him.
“Champagne, sir?”
Sebastian blinked, as if my offering him a drink was somehow surprising, but he grabbed a glass of bubbly. Well, actually, it wasn’t quite as bubbly now as when it had been poured in the kitchen, but I was hoping that he wouldn’t notice—or wonder what I was doing here.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
I nodded and stepped to one side, ready to make my exit.
He spoke again. “Tell me, what are you doing in this part of the mansion? I thought that everyone was supposed to be in the dining room already.”
My hands tightened around the tray. No such luck. Of course not.
I couldn’t tell him the truth, so I did my best ditzy, embarrassed grimace. “I, ah, got a little turned around going from the kitchen to the dining room. All of these hallways look the same, especially with all of the lassos, guns, and creepy animal heads.”
I gestured at the head of a longhorn cattle that hung on the wall and let out an exaggerated mock shiver, as though the sight scared me to death. Actually, I felt sorry for the poor critter. What a sad, sad fate, going from wandering with your herd to being stuffed and mounted in some rich man’s house.
Sebastian frowned, as if he didn’t believe my story, so I upped the wattage on my smile, nodded again, and started to ease past him. “Anyway, I really need to be getting back. Wouldn’t want to get fired just for getting lost. So please excuse me, sir . . .”
A grin flitted across his face. “Don’t call me sir. I can’t be that much older than you.”
I wasn’t sure what to say, and I especially wasn’t sure what to make of the frank, assessing way he was staring at me, almost like he was . . . intrigued by me. But that couldn’t be right. I’d “worked” dozens of dinners and had run into more guys like Sebastian Vaughn than I cared to remember. The only things most of them were interested in was how much liquor I could serve them, how fast, and if I was willing to let them f**k me in some dark corner to help pass the time.
The answer to that last question was always a loud, resounding no. Most of the guys shrugged and moved on to the next waitress, but there were a few who didn’t want to take no for an answer. But they soon realized that the shattered edge of a champagne glass made for an excellent weapon and that maybe they shouldn’t f**k with the help after all—because the help might just f**k back with them.
But Sebastian kept staring at me, his interest growing instead of waning, so I tried to figure out what sort of game he was playing. I’d thought before that he resembled a younger version of his father, with his black hair, tan skin, and brown eyes. That was true, but the pictures in Fletcher’s file didn’t do Sebastian justice. No mere photo could adequately capture the absolute perfection of his features, his straight nose, the slight curve of his lips, the square set of his jaw, the faint flecks of amber in his deep, dark mahogany gaze. Not to mention the way his suit draped over his lean figure, hinting at all of the smooth, supple muscles that lay underneath the fabric.
I breathed in, catching a whiff of his cologne, a spicy, heady scent with a soft, sweet note that made me think of roses. Somehow, though, the floral combination only made him seem more masculine. Oh, yes, I’d thought Sebastian Vaughn handsome enough in the photos, and again when I’d spotted him in the library, but in person, face-to-face, he was simply . . . dazzling.
Especially given the way he was looking at me, with such intent interest, as though I were the most important person in all of Ashland. As an assassin, I was used to blending into the shadows, disappearing into the darkness, no one ever seeing me until it was far too late—for him. It was a bit disconcerting to be the focus of so much attention, especially when that attention came in such an attractive package. But it was also kind of flattering. Fun, even.
Still, I had a job to do—as a waitress and otherwise—and I couldn’t afford to be away from the dining room any longer. I didn’t want to get yelled at for slacking off by Meredith, the event planner, but I also didn’t want Fletcher to worry about me. And he would worry. He always worried, about everything.
So I gave Sebastian a bright smile and started down the hallway a third time. But he stopped me again, this time going so far as to step directly into my path. I pulled up short, the glasses on my tray rattling ominously, but I managed to keep from spilling any of the champagne, which would have been a worse offense than disappearing from the dining room.
“What’s your name?” Sebastian asked, his tone sounding genuinely curious.
I should have been annoyed with him, but his voice was as perfect as the rest of him, low and strong, with a bit of a deep bass that rumbled through each and every one of his words. The sort of voice that you could sit and listen to for hours.
I thought about it, but I didn’t see the harm in telling him. I’d probably never see him again after tonight. Besides, I doubted that Sebastian lacked for female attention. He wasn’t the sort of guy who would remember a waitress, not even a lost one like me. I was a momentary distraction, a faint curiosity, something to alleviate his boredom for a few minutes before he returned to the dinner. Nothing more. Funny, though, how that cold reality made a faint twinge of longing stir in my heart, longing to step out of the shadows, longing to be something more.
“Gin,” I finally said. “My name is Gin.”
“Jen?”
“No, Gin.”
He frowned. “Gen?”
I shook my head. I had this same problem every time I told someone my name. Everyone always thought my name was something other than what it was. Frustrated, I shifted on my feet. The motion made a few bubbles fizz up in the champagne on my tray. A thought struck me.
“Gin,” I finally said, nodding my head at the glasses. “My name is Gin, like the liquor.” I hesitated. “Well, not this liquor, exactly, but you get the idea.”
His face cleared. “Oh, that makes sense.”
Well, if I’d known it was that easy, I would have started introducing myself like this to people years ago.
“So, Gin,” Sebastian said, his voice taking on a light, teasing note, “what’s a pretty girl like you doing working as a waitress? You should be drinking champagne instead.”