I blinked, trying to decipher the image in front of me. Baron Spencer was here, and to my dismay, he looked a hell of a lot better than I did.
Tall, well above six foot, his long legs stretched to one side, with eyes dark like his soul and unruly raven hair that curled up at the sides, covering his stupidly perfect ears. High cheekbones—always rosy when touched by the sting of the cold—square jaw and straight nose. Everything about his face was composed and icy.
Only the flush on his porcelain skin reminded me that he was still flesh, blood, and heart, and not a machine programmed to ruin my life. The color in his cheeks even gave his dark, brooding features a boyish glint.
I wasn’t surprised to see the I-dare-you-to-fuck-with-me expression was still stamped on his face, like an old song I knew by heart. I also wasn’t surprised to see that, unlike me, his sense of style had matured with age. Impeccable, yet unpretentious. He wore dark-blue jeans, brown Oxfords, a white dress shirt, and a tailored blazer.
Casual. Understated. Expensive.
Nothing fancy, but enough to remind you that he was still richer than 99.9% of the population. I always changed the subject whenever my parents tried to fill me in on anyone from Todos Santos, and they never mentioned Vicious. Not in recent years, anyway. For all I knew, he woke up every day to do nothing except dress like a big-shot rich guy.
I couldn’t look in his eyes, couldn’t even look in his direction. My gaze moved to the man who sat opposite him. He was slightly older—early thirties, maybe?—heavy-set with sandy-blond hair and the sharply tailored suit of a greedy Wall Street broker.
“Anything to drink?” I repeated, my throat closing up. I was no longer smiling. Was I even breathing?
“Black Russian.” Sharp Suit dragged his eyes along the curves of my body, stopping at my chest.
“And you?” I chirped to Vicious, pretending to write down the drinks I would’ve remembered by heart anyway. My shaky hand scribbled blindly, missing my little notepad.
“Bourbon, neat.” Vicious’s tone was indifferent, his eyes dead when they landed on my pen. Not on me.
Aloof. Cold. Unaffected.
Nothing’s changed.
I turned around and wobbled back to the bar in my too-tight shoes, placing the order with Kyle.
Maybe he didn’t recognize me. After all, why would he? It had been ten years. And I’d only lived at the Spencer estate during my senior year.
I tapped the edge of the bar with the side of my chewed-up pen. Kyle groaned when he heard Sharp Suit had ordered a Black Russian. He hated making cocktails. I lingered, skulking behind Kyle’s shoulder, stealing another glance at the guy who used to make my heart stutter.
He looked good. Lean-muscled and all man. The last ten years were kinder to him than they’d been to me. I wondered if he was just passing through Manhattan on a business trip or if he lived here. Somehow, I thought I’d know if he was living in New York. Then again, Rosie and my parents knew better than to share any information about the HotHoles with me.
No, Vicious was only here on business, I decided.
Good. I hated him so much it hurt to breathe when I looked at him.
“Drinks are ready,” Kyle said behind my shoulder.
I spun around. Placing the glasses on a tray, I took a deep breath and started back to his table. My knees shook when I thought about what I looked like in this skimpy little outfit. A cheap-looking cropped top and shoes two sizes too small.
Shame inspired me to straighten my spine and plaster a big smile on my face. Maybe it was a good thing he didn’t remember who I was. I didn’t need him to know how I ended up being a broke waitress who lived off cereal and mac and cheese.
“Black Russian, Bourbon.” I placed red napkins on the round black tabletop and set their drinks on top, my eyes darting to Vicious’s left hand, searching for a golden wedding band. There wasn’t one.
“Anything else?” I hugged my tray to my lower stomach, summoning my work smile.
“No, thanks.” Sharp Suit sighed, impatient, and Vicious didn’t even bother to acknowledge me. Their heads lowered back to the quiet conversation they were having.
I moved on, throwing glances at him behind my shoulder and feeling my pulse everywhere, down to my neck and eyelids. Our encounter was anticlimactic, but that was for the best. We weren’t old friends or even acquaintances.
In fact, I’d meant so little to him that, at this point, we weren’t even enemies.
I focused on the rest of my tables. I laughed at my clients’ unfunny jokes, and I drank the two shots Kyle slipped across the bar when my customers weren’t looking. My treacherous eyes kept drifting to Vicious’s table, though. His jaw was clenched as he spoke to his companion. Vicious wasn’t happy.
I leaned my elbows on the bar and watched them closely.
Baron “Vicious” Spencer. Always providing the best show in town.
I watched as he slid a thick stack of papers across the table, pointed at the first page with his index finger, sat back, and stared at the man, his eyes announcing victory. Sharp Suit reddened and slammed his fist against the table, snatching the papers and choking them in his hand as he waved them around, spitting as he spoke. The papers crumpled. Vicious’s cool didn’t.
No. He remained calm and unruffled as he leaned forward, saying something I couldn’t decipher, and the more the blond man got excited and heated, the more Vicious looked uninterested and amused.
At some point, Sharp Suit threw his hands in the air and said something animated, his face as dark as a pickled beet. That’s when Vicious’s face brightened, and he propped one elbow on the table as he dragged his finger along what must have been a specific spot in the verbiage on the first page of the document. His lips were thin when he said something to the man in front of him, but Sharp Suit looked about ready to faint.
My heart pounded too fast and my mouth dried. Jesus Christ. He was threatening him and, to no surprise to me, he wasn’t being shy about it.
“Millie, take five.” Dee slapped my ass from behind just then. I jumped, surprised. She was back from her cigarette break, and it was my turn.
I didn’t smoke, but I usually used the time to talk to Rosie on my cell. I wouldn’t be doing that tonight, but I was glad Dee had apparently put my tardiness behind her.
“Thanks,” I said, making a beeline to the toilets. I needed to wash my face and remind myself that the day was almost over. I slipped past the sinks and disappeared inside one of the individual stalls where I leaned against the door and took long, steady breaths.
I didn’t even know what would make me feel better. Getting my PA job back? No. I’d never liked it much. The accountant I worked for at the advertising agency was a walking, talking sexual-harassment suit just waiting to happen. Having Vicious recognize me? It would only make me more flustered and embarrassed. Having him leave? I was too intrigued by him to want him gone.
I left the bathroom and was just about to splash some water on my face at the sink when the door opened, and he walked in.