Dirty (short stories)
She needed.
That’s where she saw him.
Finn Murphy, one of the cater-waiters. Tall, at least six foot one with messy brown hair that looked like he’d run his hands through it five minutes ago, a charming grin, and currently juggling three champagne flutes while apologizing to a guest he’d just spilled on.
“Sorry, sir! It’s my first day as a flamingo. I mean… a waiter.”
The guest, a middle aged man in a bow tie burst laughing despite the wet spot on his pants, Finn winked, bowed dramatically, and somehow made the whole thing look intentional.