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When I turn back around, the bartender is setting the drinks down. I offer my card but he shakes his head.

“Your tab is paid!”

Must be Olive.

Shrugging, I stuff my card away and take the first shot, throwing it back and hating the burn.

While I love dancing, I hate drinking.

So why am I doing it? Why am I here?

Those are the thoughts that twist deeply in my gut. I grab the remaining shots off the bar, but I don’t even bother to head in the direction of Durian, instead turning towards the side of the club where there’s a patio area.

Only once outside and at the last empty table do I release a breath.

Crowds, drinking, partying. Those are all integral parts of your twenties.

So they say.

But for someone like me?

With the worst luck?

It is a surefire way to add an extra dose of unnecessary chaos into my life.

Dancing I find cathartic because eventually everyone will give me a wide berth, but none of the rest of it is any fun.

“Is this seat taken?” The voice is husky, thick.

Looking up, I find a familiar set of eyes. I trace them down to a leather cut, tattooed arms, leather pants, all the way down to the black scuffed boots, before flashing back up to his eyes.

They are sage green and hyper-focused on my face.

My stomach flips, warmth pools.

“No…”

He raises a brow at the secondary shot.

“Whoever this drink is for can come find this if they want it.” The single shot I have taken has caused a warmth to buzz in my gut. For my mind to relax.

He folds his large body into the metal chair across from me. He cocks his head appraisingly.

“I’m…” He hesitates, appears to mull over his intent. “Orzo.”

The name is a slap to the face. “What?” I hiss between my teeth.

Does he know who I am? Is that why he sat here? But how can he? I barely recognized him.

His hand crawls forward on the table, taking the extra shot, and cheers-ing it to mine still sitting there. “I would prefer there’s nothing here for anyone else to find.”

He throws it back.

And maybe it is rude to take someone else’s drink, but I am still in too much shock to care. “I’m Cinnamon,” I throw at him, watching his face. “I still have the purple frog.”

The words are to test him. To confirm this Orzo is the one and the same.

He chokes on the drink, something between a laugh and a groan mixing on its way out.