“He probably won’t even respond,” I said, trying to sound casual and failing miserably.
She snorted, setting down the box. “That gorgeous man that couldn’t take his eyes off you? Who touched you every chance he got? If you don’t want him, send him my way.”
ZZZ ZZZ!My phone vibrated.
My stomach did a backflip worthy of an Olympic gymnast.
“Ooh, is that him?” Twyla practically bounced over. “What did he say?”
My hands were shaking too much to even unlock the screen. “What do I do?”
Twyla rolled her eyes and plucked the phone from my fingers. “Huh,” she grinned. “He’s confident, I’ll give him that.”
“Que?” I lunged for the phone. “What does it say?”
She released it with a flourish.
Kronos:Le Coucou’s on 11th. 8pm tonight. Dress nice, it’s a classy place.
- Kronos Orestes
“Oh shit,” Twyla said, looking up through her oversized glasses at her phone. “That’s in an hour. You better get moving.”
“What? No, I can’t—it’s my turn to close, and we still have to—”
“I’ve got this.” She was already shoving me toward the back stairs that led to my apartment. “Go. Wear that blue button-up—it brings out your eyes.”
“Twyla—”
“Move it! I’m not letting you use inventory as an excuse to duck your date.”
My stomach twisted at her words. I wasn’t hiding. I just...didn’t do this part. Hookups were easy—clinical, almost. This was something else entirely.
I forced myself to type “See you there” before jumping into the shower. Steam filled the bathroom as I tackled my hair—a constant battle of dark, thick waves that refused to cooperate. After what felt like forever, I finally got it looking intentionally tousled rather than just messy. A careful shave, a splash of the good cologne, andseveral wardrobe changes later, I was sprinting down the sidewalk, already cutting it close. My breath fogged in the frigid evening air, and I tugged my coat tighter against the biting wind that whipped between the buildings.
Le Coucou loomed ahead, all elegant lighting and expensive cars parked out front. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up before I heard him.
“I thought you wouldn’t make it.”
A wisp of steam curled from his words in the freezing night air as Kronos stepped into the warm glow of the street lamp. He looked devastating in a charcoal suit that fit him like sin, his red hair catching the light like a dark flame.
My body remembered two nights ago—the brick wall rough against my palms, his hands in my hair, the way he’d groaned my name in that filthy alley. Sex was familiar territory. Easy. Safe, in its own way. The way he was looking at me now, like he could see past every defense I’d built, like he was after something far more precious than physical pleasure... that made my mouth go dry. I wanted to run.
“Traffic,” I said, though my voice came out ragged.
A knowing smirk played at the corner of his mouth. “Of course.” His eyes dragged over me slowly, deliberately. “Blue suits you.” The way he looked at me turned my knees to Jell-O.
My cheeks burned, not from shame—I’d left shame behind years ago—but from the raw intimacy of his gaze. The rush of warm air inside was a stark contrast to the December chill, and my cold cheeks began to thaw as wefollowed the maître d’ through the elegant space. It was impossible to focus on anything but Kronos.
He set his menu down after barely glancing at it. I was still deliberating between the duck and the lamb when the waitress returned. Before I could speak, Kronos’s voice cut through the air: “He’ll have the duck confit with the wild mushroom risotto. I’ll take the ribeye, rare.” He didn’t even look at her as he handed over both menus. “And bring us the 2015 Château Margaux.”
“I can order for myself,” I said once she’d left, irritation warring with an unexpected flutter in my stomach—he’d chosen exactly what I’d been leaning toward.
His lips quirked up as he lifted his wine glass. “I’m sure you can.” The red wine caught the light like liquid garnets as he took a slow sip. “But you’ll find I have a knack for knowing what people want.”
Heat crept up my neck. “Is that so?” I tried to keep my tone light, playful. “Then why did you ask me here? What do I want?”
“Technically,” he set down his glass with deliberate precision, “you asked me. But as for what you want…” His eyes darkened. “I think you want the same thing I do. A game.”
