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a millionaire rock star.
    Bryn jerks his head round and jumps to his feet, the liquid trickling down his grey trousers. “What the fuck?”
    “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry.” Without thinking, I dump the other bowl on the table, grab one of the perfectly folded white napkins from the table, and start wiping at the damp patch on Bryn’s crotch.
    “Whoa, you could at least buy me a drink before making a move on me!” he says.
    “Crap! Sorry!” From spilt soup to inappropriate touching of guests, I can safely wave this job goodbye.
    The calmness of Bryn’s tone surprises me, especially considering the other band members are laughing at him. Aware of the heat on my cheeks spreading, I look up at him. Amused brown eyes regard me, which is a relief, but doesn’t help with the blushing because this is the closest I’ve been to anybody famous. His brown curls rest against his forehead, full mouth fighting a smile as he looks down at me. Literally looks down. He towers over me and if he was angry, I’d be terrified. At just over five-feet tall, most people are taller than me but this guy…
    “Good thing your soup isn’t too hot,” Bryn says. “Or that you didn’t spill it on Jem’s lap and injure him.”
    “Why?” asks someone I recognise as Jem Jones, a tightly wound guy hidden behind brown curly hair twice as long as Bryn’s.
    “Could do some serious brain damage if something injured your dick,” says Bryn with a laugh.
    “Fucking hilarious,” mutters Jem and the scarlet-haired girl next to him joins in the sniggering around the table.
    Has Bryn deliberately switched focus from me? I step back and smooth my skirt, unsure what the etiquette is now. Walk away?
    When I discovered I was waitressing on the day of the big Blue Phoenix wedding, excitement vied for nerves. There are a lot of people out there who’d give their right arm to be privy to such a momentous occasion, the first of the guys to get married. The event is nowhere near as pretentious as I expected, lower key than some of the bridezillas and, often worse, bridezilla mothers I have to wait on at the castle venue I work at part-time.
    The bride and groom sit at the top table with a little girl next to them. The longhaired bass player, Liam, and Cerys, the girl with white flowers plaited into her hair, can barely keep their eyes or hands off each other. Their awareness of others in the room seems to have disappeared. Two people in love, not what I want to see right now.
    “Sorry,” I mumble again. “I’ll get something to clear it up.”
    “It’s all good, just find me a towel,” says Bryn.
    Nodding in a stupefied way, I head to the kitchen. The moment the double doors swing closed behind me, I slump against a counter next to the chef and let out a stream of expletives I wanted to use when I spilled the soup. Although rock stars wouldn’t find this kind of language anything out of the ordinary, as a waitress, this would’ve added insult to the behaviour.
    “What’s up?” David, the junior chef, looks over from where he’s sautéing potatoes.
    “You’ll never guess what I just did,” I groan.
    “Try me.”
    I’m relieved it’s David here and not Keith, the head chef who makes Gordon Ramsey seem like Delia Smith.
    “I just dumped soup over the drummer.”
    David laughs. Not just a chuckle but full on raucous. “You’re kidding me?”
    “I wish I was.”
    “Is he okay?” David’s amusement disappears as the thing I’m worried about dawns. What if he complains? Sues us?
    “He’s bit damp. I said I’d get him a towel.”
    Shaking his head, David returns to his cooking. “Wait until Gemma finds out.”
    “I know.” Maître d’ and chief bitch has found fault with me the whole time I’ve worked here. This job’s temporary, to fill the holidays between semesters before I head back to uni in London. Gemma has a chip on her shoulder about students, and every day something I do is wrong; badly folded napkins, inadequately