I glance at Mr. Moretti. Neither he nor Anthony look relaxed. Maybe they ought to drink more of the beer they’re cradling. Mr. Moretti’s black button-down shirt is open at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows, expression unreadable even from here. His arms are heavily tattooed, and the sight of them for the first time makes hunger crawl up within me. I’ve been so long without a man, but I really ought to stop lusting after my boss of one week.Nor did I want to get involved with another underworld family. Not that the Moretti’s were part of that world anymore, but still, I had lived in the shadows of the Romero clan, and I never wanted to live in fear ever again. Not by outside forces or at the hand of my lover.
He hasn’t seen me yet, too busy talking with his brothers. I shouldn’t care if he does. I shouldn’t even be looking. But I can’t help it. He is so fucking hot. Surely there should be a law against bosses being so hot.
“Briar,” Stacy says under her breath, following my gaze. “Stop staring. That’s not subtle.”
“I wasn’t staring,” I hiss back, tearing my eyes away. Although I am. Salivating, more like.
“Uh-huh.” She sips her drink, smug. “You know, he comes here quite often after the work week. Everyone says they’ve got some kind of standing deal with the owner.”
“Standing deal?” I lean forward, pretending I’m not dying for details.
She shrugs. “Something about keeping certain people out. This place is…neutral territory.”
I file that away, even as unease prickles under my skin.
Neutral territory. “You mean people like my ex can’t come here?”
Stacy nods before she sips her margarita. “That’s exactly who I mean.”
An hour and two drinks later, the table is loud with laughter, but my attention keeps drifting. Mr. Moretti’s table clears out briefly, Anthony disappearing toward the back hallway, leaving my boss alone. His brothers having dispersed earlier.
I don’t mean to watch him, but the low lighting and the way shadows curl along the sharp lines of his jaw make it impossible not to. He looks carved from stone, one hand cradling a glass ofamber whiskey, gaze fixed on his cell, looking at something that is keeping him interested.
But before I can look away, his eyes lift and find mine. The noise around me dulls to nothing. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t look away.
Neither do I.
Something dark and heavy hums between us, invisible but undeniable. Heat pools between my legs like some woman in heat and I squeeze my thighs closed, trying to satisfy the ache there, but it’s no use. There’s no satisfying what I want, not by myself.
Stacy nudges me hard under the table, breaking the spell. “Bathroom?” she mouths, already scooting off her chair.
I follow her, more to get air than anything else.
The hallway behind the bar is quiet, lit only by a single strip of golden light running along the floor. As I wait outside the restroom door for Stacy, a pair of men lean against the opposite wall smoking, their voices pitched low.
They look at me and something in their gaze puts a shiver of alarm up my spine. My breath stutters and I tuck myself closer to the wall, pretending to scroll through my phone, but my pulse is a drumbeat in my ears.
Stacy emerges a minute later, looping her arm through mine. “Ready?”
“Yeah,” I manage, relieved that I’m not going to be alone in a corridor with two unknown men. We’re halfway back toward the bar when Stacy gets stopped by someone she knows from accounting. I keep walking, suddenly desperate for air, and step out into a narrow side corridor near the rear exit.
And walk straight into Lucien.
“Briar.” He says my name like a command, low and smooth, and heat curls through me despite myself. “Apologies, Miss Locke.”
“Mr. Moretti,” I reply, breathless, hating the way my voice sounds. “I didn’t see you.”
“I know.” His gaze is steady on mine. “You shouldn’t be back here alone.”
“I wasn’t alone. Stacy’s?—”
“Inside,” he finishes, glancing past me toward the noise of the bar. “Not here.”
There’s something in his voice I can’t name. Not anger. Not warning. Something quieter. Something dangerous. I should leave. I should excuse myself and walk back to my table, pretend this never happened.
Instead, I stay rooted to the spot.
Was it because I haven’t had a good fuck in ages? To fuck my boss wouldn’t end well and I’d end up out of a job probably before the end of the year. Still, he is like sex on a stick. Dark and mysterious, he has a dangerous air about him that, God help my pathetic soul, is a trademark that always seems to draw me in.
