I head toward the front, shoulders squaring with every step. I try to steady my breath, but my heart is already pounding. It’s stupid. It’s always stupid when it comes to him.
I keep walking. Left foot, right foot. Don’t falter. Don’t freeze. The same rhythm I use when I sing—when I used to sing. Back before everything got complicated. Before every word held weight and every note felt like a secret I couldn’t afford to share.
By the time I round the corner, I’ve schooled my face into careful indifference. Calm, composed, unaffected. But the moment I see him, my pulse betrays me, kicking up in betrayal beneath my ribs. Always him. Always sharp angles and that maddening, unbothered stare.
Damn him.
The flicker of irritation turns into a slow-burning fire in my chest. His presence sets my nerves on edge, needles under my skin. I don’t know if it’s his arrogance, his timing, or the fact that some small, infuriating part of me reacts to him in ways I can’t afford to.
My lips press into a thin line. I curl my fingers slightly, then force them to relax.
You said too much last night.
“What do you want?” The words come out clipped, even, but there’s a heat beneath them I can’t quite smother. “I’m busy.”
And because he’s him, he smirks. Of course he does.
The slow, knowing curve of his mouth only stokes the fire. I want to roll my eyes, to glare, to pretend his voice doesn’t slip under my skin and settle there, an itch I can’t scratch. But worse, he’s completely calm. Always calm. Unmoving. A fixed point while everything in my life collapses in on itself, soggy and unstable. And I hate that. I hate that I can look at him and know he won’t flake, won’t run.
Not the way my father did. Not the way everyone else has.
But I don’t let it show.
Instead, I breathe through my nose, lift my chin, and brace myself. I just have to get through this conversation. Without snapping. Without letting him see how much he gets to me.
“You couldn’t have picked a worse time. We’re slammed,” I say, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave.
Malachi only shrugs, completely unfazed. “I can wait, Sour Patch. I’m hungry anyway. Can you seat me in your section?”
His eyes hold mine, as if he’s waiting for me to say no. Daring me to. His knuckles flex once where his hand rests against the wall, the smallest tell that he isn’t as unaffected as he appears.
My stomach tightens. Not with nerves or excitement, but with something sharp-edged and hot that I refuse to name. The hostess lingers beside us, gripping the seating chart a little too tightly.
“When a table opens in my section, put him there,” I tell her, turning on my heel and walking away.Son of a bitch.
I try to fall back into the rhythm I had before he showed up—quick hands, smooth movements, mechanical efficiency—but it’s impossible. My pulse stutters, my thoughts scatter, and I hate that he’s managed to shake me so easily.
“Are you okay?” Ruby’s voice cuts through my thoughts.
I blink fast, swallowing the lingering frustration before forcing a small nod. “Yeah. Fine.”
But I’m not fine.
Because right then, the group of ladies at my table, the ones who ran me ragged with refills and endless requests, stand to leave. I already know before I walk over. My stomach sinks as I stare at the crumpled bills they left behind.
Seriously?I glance toward the front again, my eyes locking on Malachi with the pull of a magnet I never asked for. He’s watching me; always watching me. He doesn’t seem to know how to look away. Or maybe he just enjoys knowing I notice.
My pulse trips and I silently curse the part of me that notices back. That stupid, treacherous part that picks up his scent even across the room. Leather. Spice. Trouble.
Snatching up the pathetic tip, I shove it into my apron with a little more force than necessary. Then I feel him before I even see him; a subtle shift in the air, a tingling down my spine. Malachi settles into the chair as if he owns the place, his presence an oppressive heat I can feel clear across the dining room.
He’s not just watching. He’s waiting. Claiming space as though it’s already his. As though being near me is a right he doesn’t question. My skin prickles with the knowledge, and the dangerous part is, it doesn’t feel wrong.
As I head toward him, my pulse quickens as his eyes lock onto me, dark and intense, tracking every movement with dangerous amusement. His scent wraps around me again. Leather, spice, and the faint promise of trouble. It fills my lungs and clouds my thoughts.
“I’ll be right back. Do you know what you want to drink?” My fingers curl around the chair, gripping it so tightly my knuckles ache.
“Jack and Coke,” he says, his voice carrying that familiar rasp. But there’s a dip in it now. Lower. Rougher. Something catches in his throat when I walk up. His fingers twitch once, subtle. Almost as if he’s fighting the same thing I am.
