Free The Curvy Waitress and the Billionaire French Count (He Wanted Me Pregnant!) by Victoria Wessex

The Curvy Waitress and the Billionaire French Count
     
    I never meant to break the guy’s nose.
    I didn’t even know he was there. I was squeezed between two tables, reciting a coffee and cake order back to a table full of grinning hipsters and trying to ignore the one staring at my cleavage. Ever wonder what’s going on in your waitress’s head? Mine looked like this:
     
    - I told that guy we have the pecan pie but now I’m not sure and he won’t tip if I’m wrong.
    - That guy is still staring at my breasts.
    - If I don’t make another $47 by Friday I’m not going to make rent.
     
    I wonder who’s standing behind me? didn’t even make the list. And then I heard the guys on the table to my left. I only heard one word, ass, but I only needed to.
    My rear gets a lot of comments, especially when it’s squeezed into the hideous pink and white waitress uniform we have to wear at the diner. It’s part of the 50s retro-cool thing that allows the boss to charge double what any other place would for mediocre coffee and limp salad. It’s all very cute when you look like a stick. When you’re a little larger, though, it’s… tight.
    I bristled but didn’t turn around. If I got angry at him, I’d lose any chance I had of a tip from that table.
    A guy at the hipster table told me I’d got his order wrong. I hadn’t—he’d changed his mind for the third time. But I smiled sweetly, crossed it out on my pad and re-wrote it. Breathe, Holly. Breathe. I was done. I started to turn towards the kitchen.
    “Are they real?” asked the guy who’d been staring at my breasts.
    “I— What?!” I couldn’t believe he’d actually asked that. I mean, it wasn’t the first time I’d heard it, but it usually came after the fourth margarita. I felt the flush rising up my face, as if I’d done something wrong. As soon as someone drew attention to my shape, the shame set in.
    “Shh! You asshole!” The guy’s friend punched him in the arm, a white knight riding in to save me. “Sorry,” he told me.
    I relaxed. For a split second.
    “Of course they’re real,” the “knight” whispered to his friend. “Look at her. She’s just big.”
    My teeth ground so hard they hurt. The flush in my cheeks turned red hot. I knew exactly what I was, huge and ugly and unlovable, and I didn’t need him to tell me. I spun on my heel to stalk off , my gleaming metal tray out in front of me—
    Crack.
    I blinked. A thin man in a suit was staggering backward, blood gushing from his nose.
    I looked at my tray. I looked at the man. Oh, shit!
    The diner had suddenly descended into a shocked hush. The bleeding guy’s feet skittered under him on the tiles and he almost went down on his ass. He was caught at the last minute by someone behind him and hoisted back to his feet.
    I ran forward. The guy’s snow-white shirt was rapidly turning red. “OhMyGodI’mSoSorry!” I gabbled. “Do you want a doctor? An ambulance?” I grabbed a handful of napkins and thrust them at him. “Here!”
    The guy was upright now, still supported by whoever was standing behind him. He recovered just enough to say, “Merde!” Which was a bad luck/good luck kind of a thing.
    Bad luck, because I’d just cracked open the nose of a foreign tourist, the lifeblood of overpriced, tacky places like the diner. I could see the TripAdvisor review now. Good luck, because French was the one foreign language I spoke—and spoke well, as it happened. I’d been raised bilingual, my French dad reading me as many kids’ books in French as my mom did in English. Bad luck, because he’d skipped town with another woman six years ago, when I was fifteen, and French was a reminder. He offered me money, occasionally, which I refused on principle.
    “I’m so sorry,” I told him in French. “I didn’t see you. I’m clumsy. I’m an idiot. Would you like me to call an ambulance?” Please don’t ask for an ambulance, I thought desperately. Visions of lawsuits and medical