Free Erased by Elle Christensen, K Webster

my apparent overexcitement of work and leaves me to my own devices. Yanking the pad and pen from my apron, I saunter as sexily as I can over to what I’m quickly seeing is a good-looking man who’s slid into a booth alone.
    “Hey there, sugar. What can I get you to drink?” I purr. If I’m going to get my own tables, I’m going to get some kickass tips.
    His eyes bug out of his head as he drinks me up. “Holy shit. You’re . . . uh . . . You are gorgeous.”
    My cheeks redden at his compliment. It’s nice to hear such a sweet thing from a nice-looking man. I try not to focus on the pang in my heart when I realize he has many similarities to Kent. This man has longish, blond hair, dark-blue eyes, and one dimple on the right side of his mouth that’s quirked into an adorable lopsided grin. Kent didn’t have a dimple, but they could be related based on their similarities.
    “Thanks.” I’m still just smiling at him but am confused on what to do next.
    He composes himself and now introduces himself politely. “Jack Bronson. Nice to meet you.”
    Very Kent of him. I shake his hand. Very Joss of me.
    “Jill Anderson.”
    He quirks up a brow. “Hmmm. You don’t look like a Jill. Maybe something a little more exotic? Judith? Jasmine?”
    Joss.
    His eyes are questioning. Suddenly, I feel very wary of my fake persona. Am I that transparent?
    “I, uh . . . I hear that a lot,” I stammer.
    He narrows his eyes as if to question why I would lie about something as simple as my name. “Okay. I’ll have a Corona with lime and a side of Jill,” he says with a wink.
    My cheeks go crimson again. Kent was the king of corny pickup lines. Once again, my heart aches for the normalcy of my old life. Instead of giving him an answer, I turn on my heel and sashay—for his benefit—over to the bar. The bartender isn’t here yet, so I slide behind the bar and bend over to open one of the small refrigerators under the bar.
    When I hear something slam hard on the bar, I nearly drop the Corona in my hands. Then I stand and turn to see who made the racket. My eyes find the beautiful, steely, pissed-as-hell ones of Slade.
    Oh shit.
    In attempt to not show my fear, I lift my chin and snatch up a bottle opener. Once I’ve opened it and poked a lime in the top, I pivot on my heel and storm toward him. As I pass him, I can almost feel the furious heat suffocating me. I don’t give him a chance to chew me out and all but skip over to Jack.
    Jack’s eyes are all over my body as I approach. It makes me feel wanted—appreciated—unlike the way Slade makes me feel. Today, Slade made me feel like a piece of trash. Like I wasn’t even good enough to be one of his “tenants.”
    “Your Corona,” I beam as I sit down in the booth beside him, “and a side of Jill.”
    His eyes widen with surprise, but he quickly recovers. And again he hits on me with his Kent-like flirts. “I like my Coronas cold and my side of Jill hot.”
    I giggle at Jack’s corniness but can’t help when my eyes flit over to Slade who’s pacing behind the bar like a caged animal, his eyes never leaving our table.
    “Do you want anything to eat?” I ask and pull out my pad so it will appear like I’m working.
    Jack’s eyes study every feature of mine, from my dark, pulled-back hair all the way down my long, slender neck. “How old are you?” he asks softly as his eyes search mine.
    Shit. I wasn’t prepared for that question. I’m afraid that, if I lie again, he’ll think I’m a total weirdo. But I can’t be too trusting.
    “Old enough to know that she isn’t supposed to sit with the customers while on the clock,” Slade’s low voice grumbles from beside me. “ Jill. My office. I’ll finish with this customer.”
    Tears sting my eyes, and I’m horrified. Rather than embarrass myself further, I scoot from the booth and push past Slade without sparing him a glance. I hate him. My long strides don’t slow until I’ve burst into his office and pushed