Chapter 162 162

Chapter 162 162
One Month Later

“Are you the temp?”

The maître d’ is a hook-nosed man with a permanently annoyed expression on his face. I passed by him earlier, on my way into the restaurant, and witnessed him yelling at another waitress like she was a stray dog.

“Yes, sir,” I nod, trying to adjust the small white apron around my tight-fitted black uniform. “Mr. Connelly punched me in.”

He looks over me with a critical eye. “You’re not wearing the right shoes,” he says, glancing down at my black flats.

“I know; I’m sorry. But it was a last-minute call and the agency informed me of this shift literally half an hour before I got here. I had to—”

He holds his hand up to silence me. “Not interested in your life story. There’s a group of VIPs in one of our private rooms. Can you handle pouring drinks?”

I swallow past the knot in my throat. “Oh, uh, yeah. Of course. Sure.”

He nods primly. “Let your hair down and drop a button on your blouse,” he instructs with a straight, dour face. “Those men in there expect a certain standard.”

I have no idea what that means, but I do as he says.

Every time I have any doubts about my quest to find a real job, I hear Casey’s laughter in the back of my head, and it makes me even more determined to stay the course.

Speaking of the literal devil, my phone starts to vibrate in my pocket.

I know it’s him. No one else calls me.

“Oh, and girl?”

I look over at the maître d’. “Yes, sir?”

“These are important fucking men you’ll be handling tonight. You’re only here because one of my waitresses decided to break some dishes and slice her hand open in the process. Don’t fuck it up.”

The knot in my throat doubles in size. I do my best to keep my voice steady as I say, “I won’t.”

He nods one more time, smug as ever, and leaves.

Then it’s go time. I turn and walk into the private room with my heart hammering hard against my chest.

I notice three things right off the bat, two of which are completely inconsequential.

One, the naked statue of a woman with absurdly huge breasts standing regally in the corner.

Two, the black-and white-checkered carpet under my feet that covers the entirety of the space.

And three—the only thing that matters, the only thing that will ever matter from this point forward—the man sitting in the middle of the plush white sofa with his hands sprawled along the back of the furniture like he owns it.

No, like he owns the whole room.

No, like he owns the whole restaurant. The whole city. The whole world.

His eyes land on me. Some alien feeling travels up my spine to my chest.

On the surface, the reason for my reaction to him is obvious: he’s the most handsome man I’ve ever laid eyes on in my entire life, and that’s no exaggeration.

There’s something else to it, though. Something deeper. Stranger.

Because I’ve never seen this man before.

But he’s looking at me like he knows exactly who I am.

2

WILLOW

Calm down. If the maître d’ complains to the temp agency, you won’t get paid.

I inch further into the private room, trying to ignore the vibration in my side pocket. The man I can’t stop looking at is flanked by two others. All three men are looking at me, but none so intensely as the first.

His eyes are a soft hazel brown, his hair a rich autumn auburn. But despite his coloring, he doesn’t exude an ounce of warmth. It’s like staring at a statue carved from ice.

“Um, hi,” I say, cringing internally at my fake bright tone. “I’ll be your server tonight.”

The hazel-eyed man doesn’t respond. Doesn’t so much as smile. Just keeps staring into my soul.

The two men on either side of him seem a little less intense. I decide to focus on them.

That’s not to say that they’re not terrifying in their own right. Just that, compared to the hazel-eyed one, they don’t make my legs feel like jelly.

The one on the left has hair as black as mine and eyes so dark that you can barely see his irises. He’s covered from head to toe in tattoos.

The man sitting on the right is the polar opposite. He’s just as tall, but wiry instead of built. His blonde hair is scanty, bordering on overgrown. His blue eyes snake over my face with naked interest.

One thing’s for sure: the maître d’ wasn’t kidding when he’d told me these men were important. I wonder if what he really meant was dangerous.

“What can I get you gentlemen to drink tonight?” I ask, trying to remain unaffected by the way the hazel-eyed man is staring at me—even though my skin is burning and pricking up in goosebumps at the same time.

“You haven’t told us your name yet,” he remarks. His voice is rich and deep and dark. It matches his appearance perfectly.

“Oh. Yeah. I’m Willow.”

“Willow,” he repeats. “We’ll get a bottle of the Absolut Crystal vodka.”

“And a bottle of Glenlivet ‘67,” the tattooed man adds.

“And lots of ice,” the blonde one says.

I nod and back out of the room as fast as I can without another word. I give the bartender their order.

“They want the Absolut and the Glenlivet?” he asks, jaw wide open. “Full bottles of both? Are they aware that that’s like thirty grand in liquor?”

“I don’t think they give a shit,” I say.

He whistles. “Must be nice being that rich. I gotta go get those out of the safe. Be right back.”

“Roger. Hurry, please.”

While I’m waiting, I check my phone. “Fuck,” I whisper under my breath.

I’ve got five missed calls from Casey and a whole avalanche of texts. They get increasingly more irritable as they go.

Text one: Hey baby. I was thinking I’d take you out to dinner tonight. How does that sound?

Text two: Willow? Baby? I tried calling and you didn’t pick up. Where are you? Don’t tell me you’re at that stupid fucking temp agency again.

Text three: Where the fuck are you and why aren’t you answering your phone?

Text four: I’m sick and goddamn tired of this independent kick you’re on. It’s fucking pointless. You know you’re not going to be able to make any real money. You quit college, remember? You don’t have a degree or any work experience! Get your ass home now. And fucking call me!

“They wanted a whole bottle of whiskey?” the bartender asks.

I look up distractedly. “I, uh… yeah. Yeah. Whole bottle.”

He shrugs and turns to fetch it. I look back down at my phone. I know I’m not going to get away with not answering, so I pull up our text thread and type out a quick message.

I told you I was serious about getting a job. I’m working tonight at The Black Lotus. It’s a late night shift so don’t wait up for me.

I put my phone away and grab the loaded tray before heading back towards the private room.

As I go, I feel that now-familiar sensation creep up my spine again. Like I’m burning and freezing at the same time. Excitement? No, that’s not the right word. Besides, I don’t even know the man.

But my eyes travel straight to him the moment I enter the room. I walk forward and set the tray of alcohol on the circular table between the three of them.

“Would you like to order your food now or later?” I ask.

“You forgot the ice,” the blonde man tells me.

I look at the tray and pale instantly. “Fuck… oh, shit. I mean—I’m so sorry… Excuse me, I’ll just run to the bar and get it for you.”

With my cheeks flaming, I make a beeline for the bar. If they complain to the maître d’, I’m royally screwed.

It takes me only a minute or two to get back to the private room with the bucket of ice in hand. When I do, I realize that the two men on either side have vanished.

Only one remains: the hazel-eyed god.

I try not to look too surprised or nervous when I set the bucket of ice down on the tray. “Where did your friends go?”

“They needed a cigarette break.”

I nod, trying to maintain an air of professionalism. “I’m really sorry about forgetting the ice.”

“Sit down.”

My head jerks up towards him. “Sorry?”

“Sit down,” he repeats again, with so much authority that I actually start to lower myself down into the chair just behind me before I even realize what I’m doing.

“Not there,” he says, making me freeze midway down. He gestures to the empty space beside him. “Here.”

Just do what they say; they’re very important men. That’s what the maître d’ told me. This is harmless anyway, right? I’m just sitting for a minute. No worries at all. Hakuna matata.

I walk around the table on shaky legs and sit down next to him, but I make sure to keep a good two feet between us. “Um, I’m really not sure I’m supposed to—”

“You’re new here.”

My cheeks color instantly. “Is it that obvious?”

“To me? Yes. I can feel your stress radiating.”

His hand rests on the back of the sofa, which means it’s inches away from my neck. A few strands of my hair are actually brushing against his fingers.

I take a deep breath. It feels good to just admit it. “I am a little stressed, yeah. I really need to do well at this job.”

“Why?”

“Because… well, if I don’t, then the temp agency I use is less likely to recommend me for other positions.”

“Temp agency,” he muses like it’s a foreign concept.

“It’s just for the moment,” I stammer to explain. “I tried other ways to get jobs, but as it turns out, not many people are excited to hire a twenty-seven-year-old college dropout with no work experience and no discernible skills.”

“Sounds like you’ve had a tough run.”

“In the last three weeks alone, I’ve cleaned out bedpans, scrubbed public bathrooms, washed dishes at a fast food restaurant, and cleaned half a dozen houses from top to bottom. The work sucks and the pay is complete shit, but what choice do I have?”

“Everyone has a choice.”

I look at him. Something about the way he says that suggests that there’s more happening than I’m clued into. You know how people say one thing when they mean another?

But he doesn’t give anything away. His hazel eyes are complex. Flecks of gold, gray, and green reveal themselves for brief flashes every time he shifts beneath the chandelier. A curved scar runs down his neck, thick and knotted. It makes my legs tingle without warning.

“I don’t,” I say. “I need to be financially independent. And I know that’s pathetic for a twenty-seven-year-old to admit, but yes, I am not currently financially independent.”

“Why is that?”

“I was stupid.”

He smiles, and that smile—Jesus Christ. It does something to my body.

I shake my head like I’ve had a few too many drinks and I’m trying to sort myself out. But I’m dead sober. What the hell is happening right now?

“How were you stupid?”

“I… well, I fell in love,” I hear myself saying—although it feels like someone else is using my body, operating my voice for me. I’m saying the things I’m supposed to say. But God only knows the last time I truly meant them. “I met my husband in college. I dropped out to marry him. And I haven’t studied or worked since.”

“Was that your decision?”

My chest tightens as I confront all the mistakes that have led me to this moment. “Actually, no. It was his. At the time, he made it seem like—”

“Like he was doing you a favor.”

“Yes, exactly.”

We stare at each other for a moment, and I realize that not only are our knees touching, but I have somehow slipped closer to him on the sofa.

Or maybe he’s moved closer to me.

And then I realize that I’ve pretty much shared my life story with a complete stranger. A complete stranger that I’m supposed to be serving tonight.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I just said all that—”

“Because I asked,” he says firmly.

“I… Er, right. You did.”

His fingers turn upwards and he folds them over a lock of my hair. I freeze, unsure of what’s happening right now.

“It sounds like you don’t have anyone to talk to,” he tells me.

Those words send a sharp pain straight through my heart. I look down. “I suppose I don’t.”

“What about your parents?”

I shake my head. “I cut them off years ago.”

I can’t believe my deepest secrets are rolling off my tongue at the slightest nudge from a stranger. He may be an intensely beautiful one, but still, how is all this so easy for me to share with him?

“Why?”

“Because they didn’t want me to drop out of college and marry Casey. I told them I knew better.” I lift my eyes to his. “Turns out I didn’t.”

“Everyone makes mistakes,” he says, still teasing that lock of my hair between his fingers. “Well, except me.”

I smile. “Lucky you.”

“You have no idea.”

There it is again: saying one thing and meaning something different, something else, something far more. I shiver uncontrollably.

“What about friends?” he asks.

“All our friends are his friends. I have no one.”

“How lonely.”

I can’t look away from those hazel eyes of his. Why does it feel like he can see inside me? Like he can split open my head if he wants to and sift through my thoughts?

Do I even know his name?

“It is lonely…”

My eyes fall to his lips. I’ve never noticed lips on a man. But his are… they’re so…

“Willow Reeves?”

The door to the private room opens, and I jump to my feet. I turn to the door to find the maître d’ standing there with barely controlled rage on his face.

I’m guessing that control is for the guest’s benefit. It certainly is not for mine.

“Please excuse me, Mr. Solovev,” he grimaces. “I’m going to need your waitress for a moment.”

Solovev. The name has an Eastern European tang to it. Russian, maybe?

I don’t wait for anyone to say another word. I mumble a hasty apology and walk straight for the door with my face on fire.

In some ways, I’m grateful for the distraction. I felt like I was being drugged in there. Tip-toeing closer and closer to—well, I’m not quite sure where I would have ended up.

But nowhere good.

That gratitude vanishes as soon as I step out into the hallway and someone steps forward out of the shadows. My body goes cold with dread.

It’s Casey.