The Billionaire Waitress

Love doesn’t live in your head or your heart, no matter what the romantics swear by. I learned that the hard way four years ago, when I turned twenty-one and thought I’d found someone who’d set my world on fire. I was wrong—painfully so—but that night, sticky with daiquiris and caught in a stranger’s hazel eyes that promised sin, I hadn’t figured it out yet.

Greenwich, Connecticut, wasn’t a town for dreamers like me. It was a haven for the ultra-rich, where grand estates lined Greenwich Avenue and the air carried the faint salt of Long Island Sound. The Gilded Spoon, where I waitressed, was its glittering gem—a ritzy restaurant with chandeliers dripping like diamonds over mahogany tables, serving hedge fund moguls and old-money dynasties. On my twenty-first birthday, the place was alive, buzzing with clinking glasses and whispers about the Greenwich Charity Auction two weeks away.

The auction was the event of the season, pulling in Fairfield County’s elite to bid on rare art, yachts, or exclusive getaways. Some came for charity, others for romance, a few for a quick, heated fling. I’d never gone, but the stories at The Gilded Spoon were legendary: a proposal under the auctioneer’s hammer, secret deals in the Greenwich Country Club’s smoky lounge, a bidding war over a Ferrari that soared into millions. It wasn’t my world, but the allure tugged at me, stirring something deep and restless.

I smoothed my black apron, the fabric clinging to my hips, and approached a window table overlooking the avenue’s glowing lights. Two men in crisp suits sat there: one with a salt-and-pepper beard, the other glued to his phone. “Good evening, I’m Kayla, your server,” I said, flashing a smile despite my aching feet, stuffed into worn sneakers after a long shift. “Can I get you started with drinks?”

The older man glanced up, his eyes lingering a beat too long. “Two ice waters and two strawberry daiquiris, please.”

I nodded, jotting it down, and headed to the bar. The restaurant thrummed—glasses chiming, conversations humming, the air thick with the scent of seared steak and rich wine. At the bar, Jake was polishing a glass, his blond hair falling into his eyes, giving him that boyish charm.

“Happy birthday, gorgeous!” Jake grinned, pulling me into a quick hug that pressed his warm chest against me. He smelled of citrus and gin, a bartender’s trademark. He’d been my rock since I started here two years ago, always ready with a laugh or a flirty quip.

“Thanks, Jake,” I said, sliding him the order. “I’m dying for a break.”

“Heard the auction’s gonna be wild,” he said, pouring rum with a flourish. “Rumor is Justin Drake’s in town—you know, the billionaire no one’s seen? Could be here, blending in. You going?”

I leaned against the bar, my curves softly outlined by my uniform. “Maybe, if I can find a dress that doesn’t scream ‘server.’ Think he’s really here?”

Jake shrugged, sliding the tray of drinks my way. “That’s the talk on Greenwich Avenue. Could be at table six, and we’d never know. Go charm those tips, birthday girl.”

I smirked, balancing the tray as I wove through the crowd, my mind drifting to the auction: sleek gowns, sharp tuxedos, a world of glamour and desire so far from mine. I didn’t see him coming.

He was tall, broad, and moved too fast. We collided, my tray flying—ice water splashing my blouse, daiquiris drenching me in sticky pink streaks. I hit the floor, palms stinging, skirt riding up, the cold liquid soaking through to my skin.

“Goddamn it,” he said, voice low and rough, laced with panic. He crouched, offering a hand. “I’m so sorry—are you okay?”

I pushed his hand away, cheeks burning as the restaurant’s eyes locked on me. “I’m fine,” I snapped, scrambling up, my wet ponytail dripping, ice cubes slipping down my back.

“Kayla, you good?” Jake called, hurrying over with a towel, his gaze flicking to my soaked blouse, now clinging to my curves.

“I’m out,” I muttered, humiliation tightening my throat. “Can’t work like this.” I needed to escape the stares, the mess.

“I’ve got your table, babe,” Jake said, giving me a quick, damp hug. “Happy birthday—go take care of yourself.”

The guy was still there, blocking my path, all muscle and presence. Late twenties, maybe, with a chiseled jaw and a button-up stretched tight over his chest. His hazel eyes caught the light, holding a mix of regret and something hotter that sent a shiver through me.

“Let me pay for your cleaning,” he said, voice soft but intense, like he was picturing more than just my dry cleaning bill.

“Just leave me alone,” I shot back, heat rising—not all of it anger. I grabbed my phone and wallet from the locker room, hands shaky, the sticky residue clinging to my skin. I needed air, now.

Outside, the parking lot behind The Gilded Spoon was cool, the night breeze cutting through the restaurant’s heat and prickling my damp skin. My beat-up sedan sat under a flickering streetlight on a quiet side street. I fumbled with my keys, clothes plastered to me, when footsteps crunched behind.

I spun, heart racing. It was him, hands raised to show he meant no harm. In the dim light, he was striking: six-foot-two, dark curly hair, a solid build that screamed power. His hazel eyes locked on mine, intense enough to make my stomach flip.

“Why are you following me?” I demanded, keys biting into my palm, though his presence was doing things to me I didn’t want to admit.

“I had to apologize properly,” he said, stepping closer, his voice steady and warm, like a touch. I backed into my car door, the metal cold against me. “I didn’t mean to ruin your night.”

My pulse hammered, part fury, part something dangerously close to want. “You’ve apologized. Now go.”

He reached out, his fingers brushing mine for a split second, sending a jolt through me that settled low. “Come to the auction,” he murmured, his voice dropping, eyes dark with promise. “I’ll make this right—maybe more than right.” His lips curved into a half-smile that made my thighs clench, then he turned and vanished into the night.

I slid into my car, slamming the door, the daiquiri scent mixing with the heat pooling inside me. Watching his silhouette fade, my mind spun: Who was he? Some rich idiot, or maybe Justin Drake himself? Why did his words make my body hum?

I started the engine, its rumble steadying me. My tiny one-bedroom on the edge of Greenwich was a short drive—my hard-earned haven. Cruising past the avenue’s glowing boutiques, I couldn’t shake his eyes, his voice. Jake’s rumor nagged: Justin Drake, the billionaire shadow. No way a man like that chased waitresses. But the thought lingered, teasing me.

At home, I peeled off my ruined clothes and showered until the water turned cold, my jet-black hair clinging to my shoulders. In the steamed mirror, I saw myself: brown eyes burning, full curves aching for touch, stubborn jaw set tight. I wasn’t a gala girl, but maybe I’d go to the auction—to step into that world, or to see if he’d make good on that promise.

I slipped into bed, the sheets cool against my skin, but his hazel eyes followed me into dreams filled with whispers and heated touches.

He watched her taillights disappear, hands in his pockets, body tense with want. She was stunning—five-foot-six, curves that made his blood pound, jet-black hair shining under the streetlight. Her brown eyes had flashed with fire when she snapped at him, and it hooked him deep. He’d been reckless, following her, but in Greenwich’s world of polished lies, she was real—fierce, damp, and tempting. He’d find her at the auction. He needed to know how she’d feel under his hands, her breath hot against his skin.