Page 42 of Faking the Goal

At first, I figured he'd come once because he'd found out I worked here and curiosity got the better of him. Fine. Whatever. I'd already caught him here, so there wasn't much point being embarrassed about it.

Then he came back.

And came back again.

Always alone. Always in that same corner. Always ordering food and a drink and keeping mostly to himself.

And always watching me.

I've noticed.

Of course I've fucking noticed.

I spend hours every night surrounded by men whose eyes follow me around this room. I know when I'm being watched.

Kentaro's different, though.

His eyes aren't glued to my tits when I bend over a table. He doesn't stare at my ass when I walk away or give me that look I've seen thousands of times from customers who are wondering whether the servers are secretly included on the menu.

He just... watches me work.

When I'm taking orders. When I'm talking to customers. When I'm carrying drinks from the bar. Sometimes I'll glance toward his booth and find those dark eyes already on me, that permanent crease between his brows like he's studying something he can't quite make sense of.

It's fucking weird.

Not creepy weird. If anything, I know exactly how to deal with creepy. Creepy is easy.

This, I don't know what to do with.

So I've been pretending I haven't seen him.

Part of that is because he clearly doesn't want me to know he's here, and watching a man his size try to disappear into the corner of a strip club like he's somehow capable of blending into the furniture has been entertaining enough that I haven't felt the need to ruin it.

The other part?

It's because I'm still not particularly eager to have a conversation about the fact that I work at a strip club with the man who has already demonstrated some very strong opinions about how I live my life. I know I shouldn't give a shit what Kentaro thinks about my job. I don't give a shit what most people think about it. The Velvet Lounge pays well, the tips are good, and I've been working here long enough that I don't need anyone's approval.

God only knows what kind of shit he'd have to say about this.

So if he wants to sit in his little corner and silently disapprove of me, fantastic. He can judge away. I'll serve my tables, collect my tips, and we can continue pretending neither of us sees the other.

It's been working perfectly.

Until tonight.

Because tonight, the asshole didn't come alone. He brought Elijah Devereaux, his team captain, with him.

I finish dropping off a round at one of my tables and barely make it three steps before a familiar voice rises over the music.

"Hey, Taylor!"

Oh, fuck me.

I don't even need to look.

I take a breath, adjust the empty tray against my hip, and paste my work smile back onto my face before turning casually toward the voice. Elijah is sitting across from Kentaro, one hand raised high enough to flag down an aircraft.

"Dude, quit it," Kentaro says, glaring at his captain.