“Just ignore him, dear. He thrives on disapproval.” She winked.
I presented the bottle for her approval, uncorked it with a satisfying pop, and poured a taste. She sipped, nodded, and gave a contented sigh.
“Oooh, that’s lovely. Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
Focused on the rhythm of service, I drifted into autopilot. The hum of conversation became a low, familiar thrum—silverware clinking, glasses tapping, laughter that didn’t belong to anyone I knew.
I moved through the space like I always did—fluid, composed, sharp—but the second the hairs on the back of my neck lifted, I knew.
He was here.
I didn’t need to look up to know where Theo was. I could feel him, like gravity shifting the room. I could’ve mapped his position blindfolded.
What was it about him?
Dark brown hair, precisely styled, wearing a tailored suit that looked like it was born with him. That kind of look had never been my weakness. But Theo’s smoldering green eyes—eyes that flickered like dying stars—wrapped in shadows he didn’t speak of? Those were another story.
And then he looked at me.
Our gazes collided across the room, and the world dulled into grayscale. It was just us. Me, behind the bar. Him, across the room like a storm held back by sheer will. His eyes met mine like they were asking something, something I didn’t know how to answer. Something I didn’t know hownotto answer.
There was heat there—unspoken, suppressed, dangerous. And pain. Not surface-level stuff, either. The kind of pain you buried so deep you forgot it’s there until someone looked at you like theysawit.
He saw mine.
And I saw his.
It yanked at the part of me I kept hidden behind sarcasm and inked skin—the part that remembered what it felt like to be paraded around as a prop, not a person. A perfect little accessory for my parents’ ambition. Something that looked good in photos but never felt like it belonged in them.
Square peg, round hole. That’s what I was.
I broke the gaze before I could spiral. Shook my head and blinked back to reality, swallowing the ache in my throat.
He was just a guy. A cold, distant, frustratingly magnetic guy who walked like the world owed him space and respect. But he made me feel things I didn’t have words for. Not yet.
A sharp burst of laughter—too loud, too sharp, too hollow—cut through the air like a blade. Conversation in the restaurant faltered. Chairs scraped. Heads turned. Everyone looked toward the lobby to see what the hell had just blown in.
I didn’t.
I watched Theo.
His head whipped toward the sound like a missile locking on target. The flicker I’d seen earlier in his eyes—heat, curiosity, that ghost of something human—snuffed out instantly. His shoulders squared, jaw tightened, spine rigid with control.
In seconds, Theo wasn’t Theo anymore. He was the walking embodiment of legacy and ice. The manager of Brookhaven Ridge Country Club. Untouchable.
And I had a gut-deep feeling I knew exactly who had just arrived. A deep breath did nothing to settle the unease crawling under my skin.
As conversation resumed and the tension bled back into the low murmur of clinking cutlery and champagne flutes, I kept my eyes on the lobby doors, waiting for the inevitable hurricane.
I didn’t have to wait long.
In strutted Elias Ballantyne, all swagger and wealth, like he thought the room owed him applause. Tailored within an inch of his ego, he scanned the restaurant like he was selecting a new toy. Behind him trailed his trio of smirking clones—pressed linen, expensive watches, dead eyes.
And then he saw me.
“Well, look who it is,” Elias drawled, a grin spreading across his face like oil. “Brookhaven’s finest surprise.”
