Perfect.
I get out of the elevator and the same hostess as always is already smiling at me, her reservation book in hand. Jesus. Of course Kiara has to work in the one hotel the Varners use for all their investment meetings. I pull my hood up so I don’t feel so exposed.
“Good evening, Mr. Varner,” she squeals.
Ugh.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Don’t call me that.
I frown at the sound of that disgusting surname and before she can say anything else, I slide a few hundred bills into her hand.
“I wasn’t here today,” I mutter.
She nods immediately.
The bar area is dim, gold-lit, quiet enough that every sound feels too loud. I take a seat at the end of the marble bar, hood still on, elbows on the counter, tapping my fingers against the counter, ignoring the bartender looking at my hands. His eyes shoot up to mine and he instantly freezes and takes off.
Good.
Kiara comes to me with a smile on her face, eyes big, hair in that messy bun that should not be allowed to exist because it makes my brain stop functioning. She looks surprised. And way too happy to see me.
“You’re early,” she says, stepping closer, shy smile playing on her lips. “I still have half an hour.”
“Yeah,” I say, shrugging slightly, like I didn’t sprint here mentally for the last twelve hours. “I’m sorry, I’ll wait.” I shift on the bar stool and rest my head on my wrist, not taking my eyes off her as she takes off and goes to clean some tables.
She gets behind the bar and her coworker leans in to whisper something to her while very obviously staring at me. Kiara glances my way, rolls her eyes, and disappears into the staff room.
What was that? What now?
I narrow my eyes on her coworker. I don’t think she knows who I am. I hope she doesn’t. Kiara comes back out—no apron,bag in her hand, smile she’s trying to hide but definitely not succeeding. She walks right up to me.
“You just shortened my shift, you dumbass,” she says, like she absolutely couldn’t wait to see me.
Cute doesn’t even cover it.
A grin pulls at my mouth before I can stop it. I take her bag without asking and lead her out of the restaurant. As soon as the elevator light hits our faces, she frowns at me.
“What happened to you?”
“Training,” I tell her.
“What training?”
Here we go. Do I have to lie? Is it normal to have like six physical training sessions a week? Probably not.
I hum for too long.
“Kickboxing.”
“You’re doing kickboxing?”
“Sometimes. Helps me to fall asleep in class the next day.” I give her a wink.
Very smooth, very believable, very teenager.
She just shakes her head and laughs at me.
