I let my eyes roam over her face, taking in every feature. Delicate nose. Full lips, the bottom one slightly plumper than the top. No makeup except for a hint of mascara. She's fucking exquisite.
"No," I finally answer. "I'm not telling anyone."
Relief washes over her face. "Thank you. Thank you so much, Mr. Mercer."
"Calvin," I correct her again, still not releasing her wrist. "And don't thank me yet. You owe me a shirt."
Her face falls. "I—I don't know if I can afford?—"
"Not money." I finally let go of her wrist, watching as she instinctively rubs it with her other hand. "Dinner. Tomorrow night."
Her mouth opens, closes, opens again. "I... I don't understand."
"Have dinner with me tomorrow." It's not a request.
"But I'm just a server," she says, confusion evident in her furrowed brow. "Why would you?—"
"Because I want to." I step closer, invading her space until she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. "Say yes, little bird."
The nickname slips out unbidden, but I like it immediately. My little bird. Soon to be caged.
"I have to work tomorrow night," she whispers.
"Where?"
"The Oasis Lounge on Seventh. I'm a cocktail waitress there too. I work double shifts most days."
The information files away in my brain. I'll own the fucking place by noon tomorrow if that's what it takes.
"The night after, then." I pull a business card from my pocket, the matte black card stock bearing nothing but my private cell number in silver foil. "Text me your address. I'll pick you up at eight."
Her fingers tremble as she takes the card, staring at it like I've handed her a live grenade. "Mr. Mercer—Calvin—this isn't necessary. It was just an accident."
"The best accident of my fucking life," I think but don't say aloud. Instead, I lean in, close enough that my breath stirs the wispy hairs that have escaped her ponytail. "Eight o'clock. Don't make me come looking for you."
Another server approaches, asking if there's a problem. I step back, straightening my ruined shirt.
"No problem," I say, not taking my eyes off Wren. "Ms. Calloway was just helping me with a small mishap."
The older server gives Wren a suspicious look before guiding her away, whispering harshly in her ear. I watch her go, my eyes fixed on the gentle sway of her hips beneath the shapeless uniform.
The gala continues around me, but I might as well be alone in the room. My mind is filled with Wren—her scent, her touch, her voice. I've never wanted anything the way I want her. It's a hunger so acute it borders on painful.
I adjust myself discreetly, my cock still hard at the thought of claiming her. She's innocent now, pure in a way the women in my world never are. But not for long. Soon she'll be under my roof, under my protection, under my body.
And she's never leaving. Ever.
two
. . .
Calvin
I don't waitfor her text. Twenty-four hours of stalking her socials, calling in favors, and rearranging my entire fucking schedule has led me here—The Oasis Lounge, a shithole masquerading as upscale with its fake gold fixtures and watered-down drinks. The moment I walk in, I spot her. My little bird, fluttering between tables in a uniform that's at least one size too small, her ass outlined in black fabric as she bends to set down drinks. My hands curl into fists at my sides.
The hostess approaches with a practiced smile. "Table for one, sir?"
"That corner booth." I point to the dark, partially secluded spot with perfect sightlines to Wren's section. "And I'll have whatever top-shelf whiskey you're pretending to serve here."
