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    Out of Their Elements
    Out of Their Elements
    Out of Their Elements
    Ebook117 pages1 hour

    Out of Their Elements

    By Elise Noble

    ()

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    About this ebook

    When Jenna Olsen takes a waitressing job at The Brotherhood of Thieves, she’s looking for a fresh start, not a hot commando. But there he is at table twenty, being all gentlemanly and distracting.

    Gage Reader doesn’t need a woman in his life. Work is his focus, not the jumpy server from his favourite bar, and he’s good at his job. But when a shadow from Jenna’s past shows up, he just can’t help getting involved…

    Out of Their Elements is a standalone romantic suspense novella set in the Blackwood world.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherUndercover Publishing Limited
    Release dateJun 30, 2023
    ISBN9781912888672
    Out of Their Elements
    Author

    Elise Noble

    Elise lives in England, and is convinced she's younger than her birth certificate tells her. As well as the little voices in her head, she has a horse, two dogs and two sugar gliders to keep her company.She tends to talk too much, and has a peculiar affinity for chocolate and wine.

    Read more from Elise Noble

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      Book preview

      Out of Their Elements - Elise Noble

      1

      JENNA

      J enna, can you take these over to table seventeen?

      Christian, the bartender, slid a bowl of peanuts toward me, but I barely noticed. No, my attention was on the door where a slender man in a black hoodie was studying his phone. My heart stuttered, and a familiar balloon of panic swelled inside me, pressing outward, making it difficult to breathe. It can’t be… Can it? I’d tried so hard to stay under the radar. My social media profiles were gone, I never went out unless it was absolutely necessary, and I’d put my dream of becoming a nurse on hold. Because of him. Because of Gio.

      Had he finally found me? Was he—

      No.

      No, he hadn’t.

      The newcomer flipped his hood back, and his hair was blond, not brown. His nose was flatter, his lips fuller. A moment later, he smiled and waved, then headed over to table six where his friends were waiting.

      Jenna? You okay? Christian asked.

      It isn’t Gio. It isn’t Gio.

      Sorry, sorry, yes, I’m fine. The nuts are for table sixteen?

      Seventeen.

      Seventeen, right.

      Get it together, Jenna. Giovanni Lombardi had already cost me one job, and I couldn’t afford to lose another. I forced a smile and picked up the peanuts.

      Tonight, table seventeen was full of middle-aged lawyers. At least, they looked like lawyers. They could have been accountants, or business consultants, or insurance advisors. Not marketing guys. The marketing guys were always cockier, like the trio at table eighteen. And doctors mostly looked exhausted.

      The five men at table seventeen hadn’t changed out of their office wear—suits all around—and the tallest of the group was still wearing a tie. Each time one of them dropped a peanut shell, they glanced around guiltily, even though guests were encouraged to toss the shells onto the floor. It was all part of the fake spit-and-sawdust ambience in the Brotherhood of Thieves, the bar I’d been waitressing at for the past three months. I’d heard that at one time, it had been a place to avoid, a proper old-school biker bar where fights were both bloody and inevitable. But these days, the Brotherhood had turned into a local hotspot, packed with Instagram influencers and twenty-something hipsters, as well as office workers who hoped some of the coolness would rub off on them.

      The biggest talking point was the money wall. Customers were invited to sign dollar bills and pin them to the wooden boards behind the pool table, and when the space was full and the boards weren’t visible anymore, the cash got collected up and donated to charity. The money wall was another social media favourite, and last year, the Brotherhood had raised almost twenty thousand bucks.

      It wasn’t a bad place to work either. Wages were higher than average, and on a good night, I could double my hourly pay in tips. Or even triple it if table twenty was full. Table twenty was reserved for the bosses’ friends, and they were invariably polite, generous, and smoulderingly hot.

      Here you go, guys. Can I get you any more drinks?

      We’ll have a round of the Old Mill IPA.

      Any food?

      Are the burgers good?

      The burgers are excellent.

      Do you serve sweet potato fries?

      We sure do.

      So can we get four loaded cheeseburgers, three with regular fries and one with sweet potato?

      Is there a gluten-free option? the guy with the tie asked.

      We have gluten-free burger buns and gluten-free taco shells.

      The menu was simple—ten different burger options, two kinds of tacos, plus chicken wings, fries, nachos, popcorn shrimp, onion rings, and house slaw. Vegetarian and vegan options were available too, and salad, although few people ever ordered that. The Brotherhood wasn’t a place you visited if you were on a diet. As well as the food, the bar offered twenty kinds of beer and a full selection of cocktails, all of which came with free bar snacks, the salty kind that brought in even more drink orders. I’d serve customers as much spicy popcorn as they wanted.

      Staff were entitled to a meal with each shift, so I could vouch for the quality of the food, although if I ate a loaded burger every day, I wouldn’t be able to fit into my clothes for long. And seeing as I couldn’t afford a new wardrobe, I asked the chef to make me child-sized portions.

      I’ll have the gluten-free Cajun chicken burger with regular fries, Tie Guy said. Is there any more popcorn?

      I’ll bring a bowl right over.

      Christian might have been at home behind the bar, but he was also part owner of the place. Usually he worked days—he and two other managers shared responsibility for keeping everything running smoothly—but Tommy was on vacation for two weeks, so Christian was taking extra shifts. Trey did the marketing when he wasn’t running around after his kids. The third owner, Logan, was more of a silent partner who had a day job saving the world, or at least, that’s what the rumours said. It was usually Logan’s friends who sat at table twenty.

      I sent the order to the kitchen—we carried mini iPads in cases that clipped to our belts, so it was as simple as tapping an app—and went to get the drinks. Halfway through my shift, and I was already exhausted. Not because I was overworked but because I still wasn’t sleeping well. I’d tried pills, but they made my brain sludgy, and I needed to keep my wits about me these days more than ever.

      The bar was standing room only tonight, and I had to breathe in as I squeezed between an excited bachelorette party and the Harley Davidson sitting on a raised platform. The motorcycle belonged to Logan, and occasionally he took it for a ride when things were quiet, usually with his girlfriend on the back. Sloane was a sweetheart. I’d met her several times, and she was always quick with a smile and a kind word.

      Called it. Yup, they were definitely lawyers. Conversation at table seventeen had turned to the subject of plea bargains. I unloaded the drinks and popcorn.

      Your food will be with you soon.

      Can I get a side of onion rings as well? one of them asked.

      No problem.

      I updated the order as one of the table twenty dreamboats waved a hand. I didn’t always get assigned to this section, but when I did, it made the long shift go by just a tiny bit faster. But my smile quickly slipped as I walked past table eighteen.

      Hey, no touching! I snapped as a marketing douche squeezed my ass, and I smacked his hand away with the empty tray. His buddies were sniggering, and he’d probably done it for a dare, but the unwanted touch still made my skin crawl.

      Lighten up, babe. Take it as a compliment.

      No, it wasn’t a compliment. It was meant as a show of power in front of his friends. I took a calming breath. Don’t dick-punch the jackass, Jenna.

      Keep your hands to yourself.

      He reached out again, but I took a hasty step backward, a move I’d practised a thousand times in the sports bar I used to waitress at in Beckley. Different state, same shit. Well, almost. This time, I tripped over someone’s foot and found myself falling butt-first toward the wooden floor. Dammit! I braced for impact followed by laughter, but instead of landing among the discarded peanut shells, I was grabbed by a pair of strong arms.

      Relax, I’ve got you.

      I lost the tray but magically ended up on my feet again, and then the guy who groped me was sprawled on the floor, flattened like roadkill as one of the dreamboats twisted his arm behind his

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