Jill Shalvis - Serving Up Trouble

A book in the Men in Uniform series, 2002

Shed always been happy enough. Well, if not happy exactly, thencontent. But deep down, Angie Rivers knew some thing was missing from her life; she just couldnt put her finger on it. Why should she, when she had a fine job, a fine apartment and fine friends.

Fine everything, really-unless she thought about it too hard, as she some times tended to do.

In any case, the niggling remained a mystery.

Until Monday.

By the time her break came she was already tired from waiting tables, but she had to get to the bank. Shed written her rent check, along with a check for what could be termed a luxury item-an artists easel. Her first and, as a budding painter, she was very excited about it.

Racing down the block in the warm California sunshine, she dodged bikers, in-line skaters, scootersit was Monday, for Gods sake. Why werent people working?

If she didnt have to work, what would she do? What a delightful dilemma to face. Shed kill herself if she strapped on a pair of skates, buta day to sit in the park and sketch? An entire day to stand in front of her new easel and paint? Mmm, nice fantasy.

Inside the bank, she hit the midmorning crowd. And a very long line. With a sigh, Angie pushed up her glasses and looked around at the people waiting ahead of her. As was usual for this upscale area of South Pasadena, everyone was dressed for success. Even the bank tellers.

She tugged at the skirt of her waitress uniform, knowing few would understand that she did love her job, hard as it was. There hadnt been money for college when shed graduated high school seven years ago, despite her parents hopes and dreams of her becoming a doctor or lawyer.

Sweet, but unrealistic. Angie hadnt been the best high school student, hadnt played sports or had a good hobby, either, mostly because shed always worked to help her parents make ends meet. She hadnt minded, though some times she wished theyd really see her, her, Angie Rivers, and not just what they dreamed Angie Rivers to be.

Disturbingly enough, her parents expectations only seemed to get more unrealistic the older they became. Why hadnt she become successful? Rich? Well connected?

Married with brilliant children?

She didnt like to admit that shed dug in her heels and purposely become the antithesis of their out-of-reach expectations. But thats what shed done.

She had goals for herself-they just didnt match anyone elses. She wanted to paint. There wasnt a whole heck of a lot of money in that, unless she found some superb talent from deep within. Oh, and shed also have to die, as most artists made all their money posthumously.

The bank line shed chosen still hadnt budged, and there she stood, with only seven minutes left on her break. Craning her neck, she saw an older woman at the counter, doling out change to the teller. One coin at a time.

Behind her was every mothers night mare. A young punk, wiry and dressed for a ghetto fashion show, paced edgily, muttering to himself. He looked like a simmering pot ready to explode.

The man in front of her had a swagger. A sort of Im-Gods-gift-to-women swagger. Angie could easily overlook his cheap, light blue suit and tacky tie as she appreciated-and remembered with vivid clarity-the pain of never having the in clothes.

She was still feeling that pain.

What she couldnt ignore was the way he invaded her space and kept winking at her.

Come here often? he actually asked her, brushing his shoulder against hers.

She didnt answer, hoping hed give up if she didnt encourage him. His hair had been slicked back with enough gel to grease a pig. His breath was hot and smelled like tuna.

Is the sun shining? he wondered. Because I cant see anything but stars when I look at you.

Angie tried a vague smile-why was the line still moving so slowly?-and turned her back to him.

With or without the tuna breath and bad pickup line, she wasnt much interested in men. Her ex-fianc Tony had been no better than her own parents when it came to seeing her, understanding her, and she was tired of that, thank you very much.

She was who she was. A great waitress. A wanna-be artist. She was fine, darn them all. Fine just as she was.

She peered behind her and saw that Mr. Edgy had gotten worse. His fists were clenched, his jaw tight. Pure fire and hatred sprang from his eyes, and though she couldnt understand his mutterings, the tone was universal.

And dangerous.

Angie had heard of highway rage, but this waiting-in-a-terminally-slow-line rage was new to her, and a little scary. Shivering, she turned sideways, feeling sandwiched by desperation.

In the next line over stood another man, and this one looked as impatient as she felt. Arms crossed, feet tapping, mouth turned downward in a frown, he embodied the man on the move. Only he was the most heart-stopping man on the move shed ever seen.

He looked out of place. Not because he was tall, leanly muscular, and gorgeous to boot. Not because hed disregarded the up-and-comer Southern California look for a simple blue T-shirt tucked into perfectly soft and faded 501s. It was that he made everyone around him look as if they were playing dress-up.

He scowled at his own unmoving line, all testosterone and barely contained power as his searing light brown gaze scanned the large, hustling bank.

Just looking at him made Angie felt a little breath less. She stood up taller, wondering what he thought when he looked at her. She knew what she thought when she looked at him. Whoa, baby.

He had sun-kissed hair cut short to his head. His rugged, athletic physique said he could have graced any mens magazine he wanted, and he didnt so much as give Angie a cursory glance when his eyes care fully and purposely surveyed the room.

Check your ego at the door, Angie.

The bank clerk called for the next customer with all the cheer of a woman facing a bikini wax. Mr. Tacky Suit swaggered up there while Angie willed the line to keep moving.

Two minutes left on her break.

One minute.

Then-finally-it was her turn. With a sigh of relief, she moved across the tile floor toward the distracted-looking teller. The woman had a beehive hair style that looked as if maybe shed worn it for the past fifty years, and fuchsia-pink lipstick. She glared at Angie as if it were her fault she had to deal with slime buckets in light blue suits.

Later, Angie would marvel at how quickly it all seemed to happen, but for now, time shifted into slow motion. One minute she was glancing at her watch and handing over her signed check, and the next, Mr. Edgy had grabbed her arm from behind.

Hey- she started, annoyed, only to swallow the words when the tip of a knife appeared in front of her eyes before settling against her neck.

Give me all the money in your drawer, he said to the startled teller while still holding on to Angie. And dont even think about the panic button.

Amazingly enough, as Angie was turned in the robbers arms so that he had a better grasp on her, everyone had froze on the spot. Even Mr. Knock-Me-Over-Magnificent, whose big body had gone tense and battle ready, didnt make a move.

Do it, lady, the man growled at the teller, who let out a little cry and froze like a deer caught in the head lights.

Angie had a moment to feel badly shed mentally poked fun at the womans choice of lipstick color before she was rudely whipped forward again. Mr. Edgy stared down at her with a look of blatant hatred, and she took a terrified breath that ended in a little squeak. Fear iced her veins so that her ears rang, making it difficult to hear anything other than the echo of her own blood racing.