2

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.