At table twelve, I find a stunningly attractive man sitting with his back ramrod straight and one hand resting on the tabletop while the other holds his phone. Everything about him screams precision, from the way his chestnut hair is slicked back without a strand out of place to the sharp lines of his tailored suit jacket hanging perfectly on his broad shoulders.
His fingers move across his phone screen with the same controlled efficiency that seems to radiate from every part of him. The light catches his cufflinks as he types, little sparks that match the expensive watch wrapped around his wrist. Everything about him exudes wealth.
Even seated, I can tell he's tall. His legs are crossed at the ankles under the table, dress pants hugging his thighs. The shine on his leather shoes could blind someone momentarily.
He hasn't noticed me yet, too absorbed in whatever business crisis demands his attention at—I glance at the clock—10:07 on New Year’s Eve. His jaw is clean-shaven and sharp enough to cut glass, and when he shifts slightly, I catch a whiff of something expensive. A mixture of something woodsy and spicy, but there’s a hint of the ocean.
"Good evening." My voice comes out higher than I intended. "Can I get you something to drink?"
He looks up from his phone, and I'm hit with the full force of his attention. Intense steel-gray eyes sweep over me. There's something predatory in his gaze that makes my pulse skip. Waitresses aren't off limits to the club members, though Candace doesn't exactly encourage it. The free membership that comes with working here blurs the lines, and most waitresses are happy to play when they're not on the clock.
Not me. I've never engaged in this kind of sex, and I'd like to keep it that way.
"Macallan 25. Neat." His voice is smooth, controlled. He sounds like someone who’s used to being obeyed.
I nod quickly, trying not to let my face show that I have no idea what that costs or if we even carry it. "I'll check with the bar."
"You'll find it."
Heat creeps up my neck. "Of course. Right away."
Returning to his phone, he dismisses me without another word. I stand there for a heartbeat too long, waiting for something more, before my brain kicks in, and I rush toward the bar.
Danny, the bartender, doesn’t blink when I ask for the Macallan. Just unlocks the backbar cage and measures a careful pour into a fancy glass before setting it on a small tray.
My palms are already sweating as I weave between tables, hyper-aware of every step. The drink trembles on my tray.
Don't spill it. Don't spill it. Do not spill this man's probably-hundred-dollar whiskey.
A couple at Table 7 laughs loudly, the woman's hand trailing down her companion's chest. I sidestep their intimate moment, my ankle wobbling once again and making my breath catch.
Almost there.
The man hasn't looked up from his phone, shoulders rigid beneath his designer suit jacket. Everything about him radiates control, from his perfect posture to the way he holds his head.
Relief floods through me as I take the final steps toward his table. Made it. No disasters. Maybe I can actually?—
My heel catches on something.
Time tilts with the crystal class. Amber liquid arcs in a perfect, devastating ribbon and bursts across his white shirt while I watch in horror, unable to stop it.
Whiskey drips from his collar onto his lap, darkening his charcoal suit pants. A few drops hit his phone screen.
He doesn’t curse. He doesn’t move. He just looks at me like I’m a problem he's deciding how to solve.
The entire club seems to hold its breath. Conversations pause. Even the bass line feels muted.
Slowly, deliberately, he lifts his gray eyes to meet mine.
2
GRACE
Candace is definitely going to fire me now.
My hand clasps over my lips as embarrassment wells up inside me, coloring my cheeks red. Shame swirls through my stomach, and I think I might vomit.
“I’m so sorry—” I dab at his shirt with the small black napkin we serve drinks on, but it disintegrates, peppering him with lint.
