Guilt twists in my gut. She’s right. If it wasn’t for her pulling a few strings, I’d never have gotten a job that pays so damn well without having to strip.
“Fine,” I mutter. “There might have been a guy.”
Rosie’s eyes light up. “I knew it.” She leans in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Come on, spill it. What’s he like? Some Wall Street type?”
I roll my eyes, grabbing a rag to wipe down the counter. “Christ, Rosie. He’s just a guy, alright? Not some fairy tale prince.”
“But he must be something special to put that look on your face,” she prods, not letting up.
I slam the rag down harder than necessary. “Drop it, okay? It was just sex. Good sex, but that’s all.”
Rosie raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “Uh-huh. And I’m the Virgin Mary. Come on, Wren. I know you better than that. You don’t get all hot and bothered over just anyone.”
“I don’t have a type,” I snap, harsher than I meant to. Rosie flinches, and I immediately feel like shit. “Sorry, I just… it’s complicated.”
She softens. “Hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to tell me everything. I’m just glad you had fun.”
I nod, grateful for her understanding. “Thanks, Rosie. Really. For everything.”
She waves it off. “That’s what friends are for. Now, you gonna tell me why you can barely walk straight, or do I have to guess?”
For fuck’s sake.
I swat her with a dish towel, laughing despite myself. “Shut up and get back to work before Joe has an aneurysm.”
As if on cue, Joe’s voice booms from the kitchen. “If you two are done gossiping, Table 4 needs coffee!”
I grab the pot, still grinning. As I pour, I catch my reflection in the grimy window. I do look different. Happier, maybe. Or just well fucked.
The bell jangles again, and I look up from wiping down the counter. A group of college kids stumbles in, loud and hungover. Great. Just what I need.
“I got this one,” Rosie says, grabbing menus. She shoots me a wink. “You look like you could use a breather.”
I nod, grateful.
My legs feel like Jell-O left out in the sun. Must be a side effect of having my pussy pounded into oblivion last night.
I grab the coffee pot and head outside to the handful of tables on the sidewalk. The mid-morning sun is warm on my skin, a welcome change from the diner’s stuffy interior.
“Refill, hon?” I ask an older woman buried in her newspaper.
She looks up, squinting. “Please. And can I get one of Joe’s famous blueberry muffins?”
I pour the coffee, trying not to grimace. Joe’s muffins are about as famous as my virginity. “Coming right up.”
As I turn to head back inside, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Someone’s watching me. I can feel it, like a physical touch.
I scan the street, trying to look casual. Nothing seems out of place. Just the usual morning crowd—suits power-walking to their offices, moms with strollers, the occasional junkie stumbling by.
Then I see him. Across the street, leaning against a lamppost. Dark sunglasses, crisp white shirt, arms folded across his chest. He’s not moving, just… watching.
Shit, what if it’s one of the Russians? My heart starts thumping like a fucking bass drum as I keep my face neutral.
I force myself to breathe, to act normal. I head back inside, my mind racing. Should I call D? No, fuck that. I can handle this myself.
“Wake up, Wren!” Joe’s gruff voice snaps me back. “Table 6 wants their check, and where’s Mrs. Henderson’s muffin?”
“On it,” I mutter, grabbing a muffin from the case. As I pass Rosie, I lean in close. “Hey, can you take a look outside? Tell me if you see a guy in sunglasses across the street.”
