Logan fumed. If Jean had ruined his chance to get with this girl, he’d wring her fucking neck. She had to know she’d mess up his chances with the waitress by not tipping her. Not to mention it was just a generally crappy thing to do, especially when the service had been good.
Logan watched the object of his desire as she passed yet another round of beers and margaritas to the college boys. He tried to ignore the way they flirted with her. The last thing he needed to do was start growling in the middle of a restaurant.
She bent across the table to pass one of the boys his beer and her shirt came untucked again, exposing a band of milky-white skin at the small of her back, not to mention giving him a perfect view of her ass in those tight jeans. He watched appreciatively, the image of her in cowboy boots and a Stetson hat rising up in his mind.
Yeah, that’d be hot. In those jeans. Maybe she owned a pair of boots. He’d happily let her borrow his hat. And maybe his belt buckle. He wondered what a nice little southern girl like her was doing up here, anyway, waiting tables at some hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant in Anchorage.
That thought was like a bucket of ice water thrown over him.
She was some nice southern girl, he realized. Not a flirty, past-her-prime truck stop waitress. Definitely not a stripper, a hooker, a fight groupie, or any combination of the three. She was . . . sweet. Shy. Innocent. He didn’t pick up girls like her.
More aptly, she wasn’t the type of girl that got picked up by guys like him.
Shit. Well, there went his little fantasy.
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