Chapter 3: The IOU

Ivy POV

There was no way I’d be able to pay that. Not now, maybe not ever. I stared at the number the owner had thrown out, no written bill, just a wild guess, zeros tacked on for emphasis while he ranted at me in front of everyone. My hands were shaking, and I hated that he could see it.

Damn it. I’d had it handled. Three separate times, I’d kept my cool, gotten free, and made sure nobody else had to get involved. Now I was the one staring down a bill that looked like it could cover a semester of tuition and still leave enough leftover for rent and groceries. All because some guy with more muscle than sense thought smashing a table was a good way to defend my honor. Or his ego. Or whatever.

I tried to hold onto the anger, but it kept slipping. Maybe it was just how tired I was. Or maybe it was because, for one wild second, I’d actually felt… safe, when he’d stepped in. Stupid.

Bloody hell. He was gorgeous, too. I caught myself thinking it even as the owner kept shouting, the words sliding in sideways, unwanted. He was tall, broad-shouldered, hair a little too long and falling across ice-blue eyes that had barely left me since the chaos died down. There was a kind of quiet in the way he stood, hands in his jacket pockets, watching me like I was something important. I tried not to stare, but my gaze snagged on his mouth, it was soft-looking, too soft for the sharp angles of his jaw. Completely unfair.

And that smell. Still in the air, stronger than ever up close, and the part of me that knew better than to daydream in bars was suddenly daydreaming anyway.

"Get it together, Ivy," I mumbled to myself. "You just got handed a bill for a crime you didn’t commit. Now is not the time to notice anyone’s lips or wonder what their cologne is called."

“I’ll pay,” he said.

His voice was low, rough around the edges, and it did something to me, something embarrassing and soft and absolutely not allowed. I forced myself to focus on the facts.

“You?” The owner’s head snapped up, all that fake authority draining out of him in a blink. For one second, he was just a guy realizing he’d been shouting at the wrong person. “Oh... no problem, Al—Alex.”

I frowned. The owner had been ready to rip me to pieces, and now he was practically offering Alex a free round. The switch was instant, like Alex carried a get-out-of-trouble card in his back pocket. I crossed my arms, mostly to stop myself from noticing how good he smelled up close.

“You don’t have to do that,” I said. “I’m not a charity case.”

“Didn’t say you were.” He smiled just a little. I could see he’d expected exactly that response. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

“You don’t even know me.”

He grinned wider. “Working on it.”

I blinked, thrown off. He said it so casually, like there was no universe where we didn’t end up knowing each other after tonight. I tried to remember how to breathe.

“I don’t need you swooping in and fixing my problems,” I said, fighting to get the conversation back under control. “I had it handled.”

“You did,” he said, and I could tell he meant it. “Doesn’t mean you should have to.”

I didn’t have an answer for that. I wanted to argue, but the words got stuck somewhere behind my pride and my exhaustion.

“Fine,” I said. “Then consider it a loan. I’ll pay you back.”

“With interest,” he replied, almost before I’d finished. He looked so sure, like he’d already decided how this was going to go.

I bristled. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t do favors. I do deals.” He tilted his head, studying me in a way that made my skin feel too warm. “Lucky for you, I need an assistant.”

I stared. “A what?”

“An assistant. You work off the debt. This option is faster than waiting tables here for the next decade and involves fewer drunks grabbing at you.

“I already have three jobs,” I said, more out of habit than hope. “I don’t need a fourth.”

He shrugged, like it was obvious. “You could quit this one.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Why would I quit? The tips are great.” Which was a lie, but he didn’t need to know that.

For a second, a flicker of something crossed his face—regret, or maybe just surprise that I’d push back. “I’ll pay you more. Double your tips. No—triple.”

“What’s the catch?”

He shrugged again, casual as ever. “No catch. It’s a win-win. You get out of this place, I get an assistant, and—”

“Can I think about it?” I cut him off, needing a minute to get my feet back under me. My world was spinning, and not just because of the bill or the adrenaline.

“You can,” he said, eyes never leaving mine. “But you’ll still owe me. Working for me just means paying it off faster. Fewer hours. Less exhaustion. Your call.”

The logic was solid, which just made me more suspicious. He was too calm about it all. Too patient, too…sure.

Before I could answer, he half-turned, raising a hand, signaling someone across the room. A second later, Milo, the same guy from earlier, the one who’d been at Alex’s side all night, jogged over, breathless.

“Milo,” Alex said, not missing a beat, “tell her about the job.”

Milo blinked. “What job?”

Alex turned to him, and for a moment he stilled while he gave this Milo guy a look that said, "Just play along.”

I blinked, shaking off the weirdness.

Milo gave Alex a long-suffering look, then turned to me with a smile that looked like it hurt. “Right. The job. You’d be…assisting. With things."

"Things? What kind of things?" I raised a challenging eyebrow at them.

"Things like smoothies,” Milo nervously said.

“Smoothies,” I echoed, deadpan.

“And lunch. Alex needs lunch,” Milo added, nodding. “Packing his lunch. It’s a very important job. Underappreciated, honestly.”

I looked between the two of them—Alex, too self-assured; Milo, clearly making it up as he went along. The whole thing was ridiculous, and yet, for some reason, I found myself wanting to know what exactly I’d be getting into.

Maybe I was just that desperate for a way out. Or maybe, for once, I wanted to see what happened if I said yes.