The Bet An Enemies-To-Lovers Billionaire Romance - Sienna Blake Page 0,3

with as she tried not to drop her salad. She managed to pry it open and I watched her fold over the ten to see what was behind it, which was a whole lot of nothing. Goddamn, fucking nothing!

“The bill was three hundred and eighty-two euros and nineteen fucking cents,” I complained, jabbing my finger at the receipt. “Am I supposed to give this to my landlord?”

I pulled out the ten and waved it in the air. “‘Please, sir, I know you’ve threatened to kick me out for like two months now but look at this. This solves everything, right? We’re square now, right?’”

From the small office jutting off from the kitchen my boss called wearily, “Delaney, how many times have I told you? If I can hear you, the customers can hear you.”

I glared at the closed office door and then silently mimicked my boss with exaggerated gestures, making Bridget laugh as she ran her pinkie along the side of bowl to scoop up the last traces of vinaigrette. I sighed and dragged my fingers through my long dark hair as I stared up at the ceiling. “Maybe I’ll just go be a hooker.”

Bridget pulled her pinkie from her mouth and laughed.

I frowned at her and crossed my arms over my chest. “What?”

Bridget shook her head. “I can see it now,” she said and then put on a terrible Texan accent, “‘Ah, what’s wrong with your penis? It’s more crooked than a cactus after a sandstorm.’”

“That sounds nothing like me.”

“‘Are you sure your balls are normal, mister? They smell like barbecued armadillo.’”

I tapped my fingers along my arms. “Are you done? Have you had your fun?”

Bridget gasped with laughter. “‘I’m not touching cock. I’d rather die at the Amallo than touch that.’”

“The Alamo?”

Bridget shrugged. “Close enough.”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “How dare you.”

I tried to take her last slice of cucumber, but she swatted away my hand. “Eh, eh, that’s my dessert.”

The door to the dining room swung open and Bridget and I pressed against either side of the narrow hallway to make room for the passing waitress. I caught sight of the asshole who tipped me ten lousy euros still sipping his wine across from his “wife”. At the rate he was going he’d be there for hours.

“Bad tipping is one thing, but the least he could do is clear the hell out so I can get another table in before the end of the night,” I grumbled, staring down at the bill. “These rich people are all the same. How’s a girl supposed to survive?”

Bridget fidgeted with her empty salad bowl as I pouted.

“I don’t know, Delaney,” she said after hesitating for a moment. “I can’t remember getting a bad tip, and I’ve been working here for years now. Most of the time the patrons here are overly generous.”

I stared at her as she adjusted her black silk vest and pushed up her bra so her cleavage pressed against the buttons of the white button-down. A plate shattered in the kitchen and there was a long string of curses from the chef.

“What are you trying to say?” I asked her.

Bridget pulled a small compact and a tube of red lipstick from her pocket. She flipped it open, and I had a feeling that she was purposefully using it to hide from me.

“It’s just that, well…” Bridget paused. “Well, Delaney, you’re a tad blunt.”

I held open the door for another girl and resisted the urge to pluck a golden, glistening fry that still popped and snapped with hot oil from a plate of steak frites.

“Yeah,” I said. “So?”

“And you sometimes struggle just a teeny-tiny bit with being polite,” Bridget added.

“Bullshit.”

Bridget dragged her fingers through her cropped white-blonde hair. “Then there’s all the cursing.”

“Bullshit isn’t cursing,” I said with an amused burst of laughter.

Bridget’s dark painted lips didn’t crack a smile as she crossed her arms.

My eyes widened. “What, are you going to tell me ‘dickwad’ is cursing, too?”

Bridget’s mouth dropped open in shock. “You call our patrons ‘dickwad’?”

“Of course not,” I protested before adding, “I only call the dickwads ‘dickwad’.”

Bridget whispered some sort of plea up toward the ceiling as pots and pans clanged nosily in the kitchen. She moved to my side of the hallway and grabbed my hands.

“Delaney,” she said earnestly, which made me squirm uncomfortably. “Have you considered that perhaps your… colourful behaviour is, perhaps, just maybe, negatively impacting the size of your tips?”

Bridget’s fingers clasping mine was the only thing that prevented me