I rolled my eyes and pulled my hand away from him before slapping him again with my pad for emphasis. “If you did that, then who’d bring your champagne, Mr Matthews?”

He tapped his chin, pretending to think. “You’re right there. I doubt anyone can carry the tray with the finesse you have. And I’d miss that hot little behind of yours in those shorts if you weren’t here.”

I stuck my tongue out at him and he just laughed. “Go find a table, Mr Matthews, I’m busy,” I instructed, waving my hand dismissively, trying hard to keep the excited smile from my face.

“You’re so rude nowadays. You used to be so polite,” he joked, winking at me teasingly.

“That was before you started scaring the crap out of me by grabbing me when I’m at work,” I protested.

He smiled, stepping closer to me, taking hold of my chin with his thumb and forefinger. He tipped my head back slightly, just looking into my eyes. “Did you see me on TV?” he asked, smiling his little dimpled smile. I nodded, unable to speak. He was so close, so teasingly close. “People thought I was going mad with my little rant about fried chicken. I got a lot of stick for it from my mates and the press. I hope you appreciated it.”

I bit my lip and laughed. “You did look a little crazy. Maybe you should eat before you race next time?”

He leant in closer to me, brushing his nose against mine in a little Eskimo kiss. “Maybe I should. Or I could just find a less-demanding waitress.”

I opened my mouth to answer but nothing came out, so I cleared my throat and tried again. “Maybe you should,” I croaked, my voice barely above a whisper. I desperately needed another throat lozenge.

He frowned and pulled back. “You okay?”

I shrugged and nodded. “I’ve got tonsillitis. Don’t worry though, it’s not catching. Well, unless we share saliva,” I joked. I just wouldn’t be able to kiss him tonight and then he’d be fine. It wasn’t an airborne infection so he couldn’t catch it.

He frowned and reached out, stroking the side of my face with one finger. “You’re sick? Why are you here then?” He looked at me like I was crazy; he actually seemed a little annoyed about it.

Oh, crap, is he angry with me because I could make him sick? “You won’t catch it. You don’t need to worry.”

His frown grew more pronounced. “Emma, what are you talking about? I’m not worried because of me. I’m asking why you’re here if you should be in bed!” he scoffed.

I shrugged. “Needed the money. I’m okay,” I croaked, swallowing painfully.

He shook his head and looked back at the table containing the stag party. “I’m stealing your waitress for the night, boys.” His hand slid down my arm, gripping my hand.

I sighed and tugged my hand from his. “Carson, just go find a table. I’ll be there in a couple of minutes,” I protested. I could work his table too; he didn’t need to worry about that.

He shook his head. “I want backroom… all night.” He took my hand again, pulling me a little closer to him, making the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Backroom, all night? He couldn’t do that, it wasn’t allowed like that. It wasn’t like you rented it by the hour or anything, but I wouldn’t be allowed to go out there all night with him. It was only just after eleven and I was supposed to be working.

“I can’t, baby. That’s not allowed.” Besides the fact it wasn’t allowed, I couldn’t really do that with him tonight anyway. I wouldn’t be able to kiss him, and I definitely wouldn’t have the energy to ravage him all night.

“I’ll swing it with Jason. Finish your order and I’ll go sort it out.” He squeezed my hand and turned on his heel, stalking off without another word. I opened my mouth to call him back, but all that came out was a whisper of his name before I cleared my throat again. I shrugged. Let Jason explain it to him. That will save me the job of speaking too much.

I turned back to the table, smiling apologetically because I’d ignored them for the last few minutes. “So, who was I up to?” I asked, glancing down at my order pad to see what I had already written down.

“That was Carson Matthews!” Tyson said with wide eyes as he stared over my shoulder, obviously watching Carson speak to Jason.

I nodded. “Yep, he’s a member here. So, who else wants a drink?”

“Do you know him? Oh, man, that dude is so awesome, and he’s shit-hot at driving. I can’t believe I’m in the same room as him!” Tyson gushed excitedly. “Do you think you could get me his autograph? Oh, my God, do you think he’d take a photo with me?”

I laughed. It amused me when people went a little gaga over Carson; it was almost as if they forgot he was a real person. This guy looked like he would ditch his upcoming wedding if he had a shot with Carson.

“I’ll ask him if you want,” I offered. Tyson nodded, practically bouncing in his seat, and I could tell that Carson just made this guy’s stag night. The most memorable thing of the night for him would be meeting a celebrity.

It took a while to finish taking the order, considering most of the time Tyson kept butting in and asking me questions about Carson. What he was like, if he was a nice guy, who he came in here with, did any other MotoGP drivers come in here, etc. The questioning was relentless, and I was more than a little glad to take the last order so I could stop speaking.