Swallowing my nerves, I cross to the bar. High-top. Expensive cherry wood that’s been polished until it gleams, and more of that green velvet on the bar stools. Not Kelly green. Smoky green. The kind that promises sin as well as elegance.
I slide onto a seat at the far end—closest to the exit, farthest from the closed booths—just as the bartender walks over. My now empty glass before me.
He’s older. Late forties, maybe early fifties. Salt-and-pepper hair styled with the kind of precision that takes time and product. And a mustache. Not just a mustache—a handlebar mustache that would look ridiculous on anyone else but on him just looks... knowing.
Bar towel slung over one shoulder. Brown eyes that miss absolutely nothing.
He leans on the bar, those eyes studying me in a way that makes every nerve ending in my body light up.
He knows I don’t belong here. It’s obvious in the way he just stares and says nothing. Not hostile. Not friendly. Just... assessing.
My fingers twitch toward my throat. Stop halfway. Fall back to my lap.
Instead, I pull Dylan Wells the future prosecutor from somewhere deep in my chest and stare right back.
He tilts his head. The corner of his mouth twitches—almost a smile, but not quite.
Then he stands up slowly and begins making a drink.
He still hasn’t said a word. Isn’t wearing a name tag. Doesn’t ask what I want.
Just makes the drink with the kind of muscle memory that comes from decades behind a bar. Bottles move. Ice clinks. His hands are steady and sure.
It might very well be the weirdest encounter I’ve ever experienced in my life.
“Cosmo.” He places it in front of me. Not a question. A statement.
Nerves make me want to twitch. To bite my tongue or my cheek. To cover my throat and bolt for the exit.
I don’t. Obviously.
But I want to.
I sip instead. It’s honestly surprisingly delicious—tart and sweet and exactly the right amount of vodka to make bad decisions seem reasonable.
“Now.” He says it in a tone that tells me I’m so busted.
“Listen.” I cut him off before he can kick me out. He gives me an eyebrow raise that is very obviously practiced. Perfectly arched. The kind of look that saysI’ve heard every bullshit story in the book and yours isn’t even original.“I know I don’t belong here.”
“You don’t say.” His voice is dry as the vermouth he probably didn’t put in this cosmo.
Fucking smartass.
I roll my eyes because some things really can’t be helped. “I’m searching for someone.”
Again with that ridiculous eyebrow raise.
“Go on,” he prompts, leaning back against the back bar, arms crossed.
My pulse hammers against my throat.
“All I know is he wears a fur coat,” I rush it out, then immediately look around.
No one heard. Just the two of us and the jazz and the smoke and my rapidly deteriorating common sense.
When I turn back, his face has changed completely.
No more amused assessment. No more practiced bartender neutrality.
