“What?” Bridgette says belligerently.
“You should leave,” he says, or rather orders.
“Are you serious?” Bridgette puts her hands on her hips. “The bitch spilled her drink on me and ruined my very expensive lingerie. So no, I’m?—”
“Call her that again and I’ll make sure that’s the last piece of expensive lingerie you’ll ever wear.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
Bridgette opens her mouth to retort, but I finally get enough sense to chime in, “I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault.” She turns her attention to me, and I hug the tray to my chest. “You’re right, I wasn’t looking, and I ruined your dress. I’ll… I’ll do whatever you want me to do. Pay you, whatever, to make up for it.”
Don’t make me pay. Don’t make me pay. Please, for the love of God, don’t make me pay.Because I don’t have any money to spare. I don’t even have the money I need for my bills so yeah, please. God, I’m anidiot.
“Yeah, that’s the least you’ll do, bitch. Or I’m going to the boss and having you fired.”
My heart thuds. “There’s no need?—"
“Here. This should cover it.”
At this, Ihaveto look. I have to gather my courage and turn toward him. Or rather, toward what he’s offering. A wad of cash, clutched between long, dusky fingers.Hisfingers. Instead of focusing on the cash though, I focus on the make of his hand, the strong shape of his fingers, the jut of his knuckles. The fact that they look rough, scrape-y, his nails short and blunt. So masculine.
It isn’t the first time I’m seeing his hand, of course. But all the previous times, I never really paid close attention to the details.I shouldn’t now either, more important things are at stake, but I can’t help it.
“It’s a lot more than what your lingerie’s worth, and your time,” he states. “So take it and leave.”
Bridgette seems to agree and quickly snatches it out of his hand, flouncing off. And then there’s just the two of us. Alone.
Well, not really. I mean, the place is packed. Yes, we’re in a corner and there’s a pillar that partially blocks it from view,butthe bar is right there. And I can see the bartender working behind the counter. So no, not alone. Still, when he steps toward me—I see his big black boots making the move—it feels like there’s no one else here but me and him. And my heart starts to pound with fear.
It pounds harder when he drawls, “Nice uniform.”
“I-I’m sorry about the drinks,” I say, stepping back.
He takes a step closer. “I like this one better.”
Both my words and my steps stutter as I move back. “You didn’t have to pay her though. I could’ve?—”
“So what are you supposed to be, an angel?”
I clutch my tray to my chest even tighter as I finally reply, “A muse.”
“A muse.”
“Yes. T-that’s what George calls us.”
“Who’s George?”
“My boss.”
“Does he like redheads too?”
Before I can think it through, I snap my eyes up and look at him. My first thought is that I completely ruined his t-shirt. It’s all wet around the neck and the chest, going as far down as the hem and even the top of his washed-out jeans.
My second is that he looks… like he always does, handsome, beautiful, heartbreakingly stunning. His hair’s all mussed up, as it always is, and in need of a haircut, strands grazing hisforehead, and his eyes look like dark velvet. Every line, every slant and slope of his face is just as sharply sculpted as it always is, all juxtaposed against those soft details I usually can’t look away from.
But more than gorgeous, he looks unharmed. I mean, I knew he would be. It’s been six months since the fight, but still, I can’t help but run my eyes over him, as if to make sure he’s really okay. As if to look for any lingering injuries, a mark or a scar. Anything that might have gotten left behind from that night, any ugly reminders. Of his heartbreak.
