Free Stepbrother Reunited (Billionaire Stepbrother BBW Romance) by Harper Bloom Page A

know exactly what they want, as if they want to make sure “pancakes” haven’t run off the page between when they decided and when I asked. Even my regulars, who order the same thing every damn day, even they will glance down at the menu if one is open in front of them. Not this guy. He was focused on me, on my face, the whole time. He told me I had a pretty name.
     
    The second time he came in, he sat in a booth in my section for more than two hours. He ate his burger relatively quickly and was doing something with his phone, but mostly when I looked over he was watching me.
     
    I’m used to getting hit on at the restaurant. I guess that’s one of the benefits, too. Most men, though, they’re more overt about it. Sure, anyone but the real creepers starts off saying how nice I am, or what a pretty smile I’ve got. In the end, they all go for the same thing: T & A. I’m a big girl, but built like an hourglass. I know how my black pants hug my ass. I get how the two or three inches of cleavage that show over the top of my buttoned work shirt turn some men’s brains into jelly. I get called “fat bitch” a lot when I turn them down. Funny how I was hot just before I said “no,” isn’t it?
     
    I do say “yes” sometimes, to the ones who ask me out on proper dates, who are usually semi-regulars at the diner. I’ve gotten to know them a little, to see they’re not total assholes. One night, when I was working the overnight shift and feeling sort of wild, anyway, the diner was totally empty except for these two guys on their way back from a concert out of town. They were both flirting with me and I was flirting back because they were cute and I didn’t have anyone else to wait on. I ended up sitting in the booth between them while I kissed them both and they felt me up. They gave me their numbers, said they’d like to do more, but I never called. They never came back into the diner again, as far as I know.
     
    What I’m trying to say is that I don’t mind flirting with customers and I don’t mind more than flirting, if it feels right. I wanted to do so much more than flirt with Giorgio Armani. The last time he was in, when he’d watched me for two hours from his booth, I’d nearly soaked through my panties I was so turned on. Now that he was back, and in the early morning where there weren’t too many customers yet and I knew Mindy would cover for me, I was going to see just how much he wanted me.
     
    “Mindy, can you cover the sections for me for a just a few more minutes? I need to make some adjustments.”
     
    “On one condition,” she said, holding up her index finger like a strict schoolteacher.
     
    “What?”
     
    “You have to tell me all about it. And I mean All. About. It. That guy is sexy as hell.”
     
    “I promise,” I said, shooing her out, “now go make sure everyone else is covered while I put on my push-up bra.”
     
    Yeah, okay, I’d been hoping that Giorgio Armani would make another appearance. But only lucky girls get to hope; the rest of us have to make some plans. I dug through my tote bag for my “going-out” bra and the high-heels that I’d never wear for a real shift but couldn’t deny made my ass look great. I’ve got some great natural gifts, but everything looks better with a little lift. I changed quickly. My diner uniform shirt buttoned fine over my regular bra, but as much cleavage as my black satin push-up bra made was too much for the top buttons. Good thing I always wore a camisole under my shirt, anyway. That’s Big Girl Lesson Number One, right there: don’t trust the buttons. The buttons are not your friends and will let you down when you least expect it. I left my uniform shirt open over the white cami, my black bra showing through it like a shadow.
     
    I checked my makeup quickly in the mirror over the break room sink. I wish I’d gone a little heavier on my eyes that morning, but I didn’t know when I woke up I was going to have my chance