Looking sheepish, Matt opened his mouth to reply but Linda silenced him by holding up her hand. “You know I have no problem with the casual atmosphere we’ve created here, but we’re going to need to change a few habits and start acting in a more professional manner. Jeremy will be in New York next week, checking out his investment, so it’s time to shape up, all right?”
Jeremy Henderson was the sole owner of the bar, but as far as Maggie knew, the man had only stepped foot in the place half a dozen times since the grand opening. He left the actual running of the bar to managers like Linda, and the only sign that Henderson actually owned the Olive was his autograph on Maggie’s paychecks.
She could see, though, why the owner’s sudden decision to pop in would unnerve Linda, who’d pretty much singled-handedly run the Olive for six years now.
“No problem,” Maggie said, in response to Linda’s order to shape up. She tied her pinstriped apron around her waist and reached for her order pad. “I’ll check on Booth Five and see how he’s doing.”
As Maggie headed for the booth, she could feel Trisha’s eyes boring into her back. She’d seen that flicker of irritation on her friend’s face, but too bad. Considering Linda had just given them a speech about professionalism, Maggie didn’t think letting Trisha approach the movie star would achieve that.
Like Trisha said, the mysterious stranger had his face hidden behind a newspaper, which really wasn’t all that suspicious when you thought about it. People read newspapers every day. People read newspapers in bars every day. It didn’t mean they were celebrities.
“Sorry to disturb you, sir, but would you like some more water?” she said to the Sports section.
There was no response from the man behind the paper. Fighting back irritation, she added, “Or maybe you’d like something else. A beer?”
Very slowly, the newspaper lowered.
A second later, Maggie’s gaze collided with a pair of familiar blue eyes.
“Hello again,” her stranger said pleasantly, the corner of his mouth lifting in a small grin.
“Oh,” she squeaked.
Chapter Three
Oh? Oh? Couldn’t she have thought of anything better to say to the man she’d hopped into bed with last night?
She tried to look casual despite the incessant thumping of her heart. God, she hadn’t thought she’d see him again. Yet here he was.
And either she was crazy, or she hadn’t paid close enough attention yesterday, but he seemed to have gotten even better looking. Had to be the clothes. Naked, he’d had sex written all over him, but now, in that leather jacket and faded blue jeans, he looked sexy and dangerous and completely edible.
As if the hotel-room disaster had happened seconds ago rather than hours, Maggie’s embarrassment returned with full-force, slithered up her spine and settled in the back of her throat. Along with it, though, came a spark of arousal at the memory of how incredible this guy’s mouth had felt on hers. How warm his hands had been when they’d gripped her waist, and how hard his—
“No need to look so terrified,” he quipped, running a hand through his dark hair. “I won’t bite, you know.”
Yes, you will. You already did, she wanted to add, thinking of the way his teeth had nibbled on her bottom lip.
“Um, I didn’t think we’d see each other again.” She lowered her voice so that nobody could overhear. “I guess you’re here for that free drink.”
“Actually, no.” The other side of his mouth lifted so that a full-blown grin played on his lips. “I’m here to return something.”
“Return—oh!” She gulped.
“I know how attached women can be to their panties. Apparently it’s like losing a limb.”
Was she blushing? Oh yes, she most certainly had to be blushing.
“I…”
She would’ve finished her sentence if not for the sharp fingernail that poked the small of her back. The French-manicured perpetrator was obviously Trisha, who gave a strangled cough that sounded like “ask him” before she scurried away. Knowing Trisha would probably bug her all night if she didn’t interrogate the guy, Maggie decided to humor her friend.
Besides, the chances of her winding up in the arms of a supposed movie star were slim to none, so she was fairly confident betting against Trisha’s farfetched suspicion.
Still feeling the blush imprinted on her cheeks, she lowered her voice and asked, “This is going to sound absolutely ridiculous but is your name Ben Barrett?”
His grin faded as if a switch had gone off. “Why do you ask?”
She shrugged. “One of the waitresses here just thinks you’re, well, this guy named Ben Barrett.”
He didn’t answer.
“He’s an actor or something,” she added.
Still no answer. Wonderful. Had she just insulted him? Maybe he was one of those celebrity look-alikes who was constantly hassled on the streets and got pissed off whenever somebody pointed out the resemblance.
Opening her mouth to apologize for pressing him, she was surprised when he met her gaze and said, “Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“I’m Ben Barrett.”
The apology died on her lips. What?
“The actor,” he added with a faint smile.
All she could do was stare. He had to be kidding, of course.