Mr. Arrogant was just this side of being too grumpy and too rude. He grated on her like the sound of metal scraping across a squeaky-clean plate. She walked back to his table, a glass of ice-cold orange juice in her hands, mentally preparing to be submissive, to put on an apologetic demeanor without verbally begging for forgiveness. Bracing herself to be nice and friendly when she felt anything but that. These types of men responded well to women like that.

As she reached the table, something wrapped itself around her ankle and she went flying. The glass of orange juice slipped from her hand at the point of impact. Thankfully, it didn’t break but slammed to the ground with a thwack.

Meanwhile, her hands and face smacked against the American’s chest. In her dazed state of shock, as another pair of hands helped her off him, her brain registered a body that had been hard. A wall of steel. There had been no give.

“I’m so sorry,” she gushed, as Stefanos helped her to standing. The American also jumped up, picking at his wet shirt.

She looked down to find her foot trapped in the long strap of a handbag.

“I am so sorry. It was my bag you tripped over. Are you hurt?” A timid looking young woman holding a toddler stared at her. A stroller stood nearby, and another slightly older child sat at the next table.

“I’m fine,” she replied. Eleni glanced behind her to see Stefanos helping the American. Wiping him down with napkins. A wet dream unfolding in real time.

The mother, face red and eyes popping, rained apologies on Eleni. Was she okay? Had she hurt herself? She looked so upset that Eleni forgave her on the spot, needing to hush her. She reassured the mother that she was okay, then untangled her foot from the bag and handed it back.

She and Stefanos had one goal; to make sure Adamos wouldn’t hear the commotion.

Although, this really hadn’t been her fault.

She hovered around and listened as Stefanos fretted and fussed over the American. “I’ll get you another glass of juice, sir. Don’t you worry. Is there anything else I can get you? On the house? No? Are you sure?”

“This place is a joke.” The American gathered his papers together. “Get me your manager.”

Stefanos smiled widely, quickly standing between Eleni and the American. “Please, sir. There’s no need.”

“Your manager.” The American growled.

“Don’t do that, sir. Please. She needs this job.”

Eleni couldn’t take this anymore. She couldn’t let Stefanos beg on her behalf. It was time to plead, and to appeal to the American’s better side, if he had one. She waded in. “I’m so sorry. I tripped, but it really wasn’t my fault.” That didn’t help, but also, it was the truth.

“Jesus Christ. I’m soaked and I smell like an orange.” The man pinched his shirt which now clung to his chest.

“At least it now has some color,” Eleni countered, nodding at his shirt and trying to make light of the situation. The American removed his shades and this time when he glared at her, she felt his wrath. “Imagine if it had been the espresso, you might have suffered burns.”

Stop talking.

It wasn’t like her to ramble. She usually knew when to shut up. The American lifted his head, immediately drawing her attention to his angular jaw. Emerald green eyes—just like the water a stone’s throw away—filled with fury and stared back at her. Her heart jolted.

In a panic, she stepped away, confounded by her reaction, by her noticing these very things. Something odd was happening to her. Her heart was racing in a way it had not for a long time.

The man squinted. His brow furrowed, his lips parted.

She waited for his tirade.

When he didn’t speak, she rushed to fill the prickly silence, confusion mixing with trepidation and causing her brain to short circuit. “Not that there’s anything wrong with your shirt but …”

“But?” The word shot out like a bullet.

“It could have been much worse. You could be wearing Giouvetsi.”

“What?” He gave her a look that could have harpooned a whale.

It didn’t stop her from explaining. “Greek beef stew … with orzo pasta. We have it on our Specials menu today.”

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