3

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.