the knack my Aunt Roberta had for predicting the next scenes.
Dirtied dollar bills and messy dishes perch on the edge of my newly painted nails, and I re-balance my tray again, secretly imagining myself chucking it at potential kill-off character number fifty-five when I hear an unknown voice over my shoulder, low and deadly. The timbre of the stranger’s voice is deep enough to run a chill along my spine, but the sound of his words are so soothing I find myself calming in seconds.
I release the tight breath choking me.
“A hundred dollars? Wow. Big spender.” The sarcasm slides off each word—words that are accented and deep. “Hmm, well, let’s see…” he muses. “It sounds like enough money to prevent me from shoving that fried chicken down your throat for talking to your server like that.” His full lips spread into a smile when I look over. “But I can’t make any promises.”
With a nod of his head, the stranger is off, back to wherever he came from, and the inebriated bankers—instantly sober—glance at me, their ruddy eyes expectedly wide.
And just like that, there’s a twist at the end of Act I.
And I didn’t even get a good look at my temporary hero. My Mr. Cloak and Dagger.
It’s a fact that hits me hard when Prick Number Fifty-Five starts to speak again, the tip of his red nose as cherry-colored as his red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes. He swallows. “Was he serious?”
“No. Of course not.” I shake my head, grabbing his plate of half-eaten chicken. I sniff it, smiling. “By the way, if you do place another order, just ignore the scorching feeling you might feel in your throat. I’m sure that’s just the chef’s new spices.”
I roll my eyes all the way back to the bar where my boss and co-owner Nancy meets me, reaching over to slip the tray from my fingers. She groans.
“Christ, what have you done this time?”
I hand her the tray, knowing I’ve just screwed up every chance at making rent tonight, wondering if the snark was worth it.
It definitely feels like it.
In fact, the only part of tonight I regret is not talking more to Mr. Captain-Save-a-Waitress over there.
In the land of shitheads and suits, I think I just met the only man who might not be both. And I may have blown it by letting him walk away.
Chapter 3
NOAH
Walking away is necessary. But fuck, I wish I weren’t.
Not when my thoughts are still on that cute-arsed waitress.
My father’s watch was still on my mind as I wandered from my Midtown mess of an apartment to Manhattan’s dark streets, the taste of nicotine and scotch still on my lips.
A glass of my best dark liquor couldn’t erase the worry. Neither could the cigarette.
One hand in my dark slacks, the other tangled in my dark hair, I don’t even look up from the uneven pavement under my feet until I hear the sounds of sultry music on the street.
That’s when I glanced up to find a street sign reading The Alchemist overhead and decided I could do worse. I strolled in, new knots working into my shoulders as I slumped in a worn leather stool at the bar.
I just needed the liquor. I didn’t care what flavor.
Until I overhead the conversation several tables over.
The drunkards didn’t catch my attention. But she did.
A voice, velvety sweet and full, found my ears, and I glanced over to find the sort of figure you only saw in movies.
A mass of dark hair tumbled down tiny shoulders and over a stark white shirt situated just above a small black skirt. Stockings covered the shapely legs beneath, but did nothing to hide the gentle curve of each delicate calf. The top of taut thighs showing underneath the skirt hinted at the possibility of other tight things beneath, and I could no longer focus on ordering from the bartender.
I had to say something.
Especially when Tosser Number Two decided to chime in.
I was out of my seat in seconds, the anger that had simmered on the city sidewalks having followed me in.
I turned on the dickheads with a swiftness that scared everyone within earshot.
Including me.
But damn it felt good to give those wankers what they had coming. If only Cynthia wasn’t calling at that very moment.
The surface of my skin is still hot with ire when I walked away from the tables, ducking into the dimly lit back hall with the bathrooms. I pick up the call, a growl stuck in the back of