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“Did I mention he’s incredibly, horrifically handsome?”

“Uh-huh. If you look past the villainous cyborg eyes.” I bite my lip on saying any more. This is only my fifth shift at Velvet. Iamthe new girl, and I need this job.

“Owner’s table,” she says. “Don’t bother trying to impress him. That man hates everything.”

Hates everything…?

“Uh… okay. Which one is the owner’s table?”

“Corner booth in my section.” She picks up her drink-laden tray. “If I were you, I wouldn’t leave him waiting.” Before I can squeeze any more intel out of her, she hurries away with her tray of drinks, leaving me to collect my order.

After serving up the drinks on my tray, I walk through the room toward the corner booth where Mr. Black is seated. I didn’t know it was the owner’s table. Mr. Vance—or Daddy Damian, as the waitresses call him when he’s not around to hear it—comes in a lot, or so I’m told. I’ve only met him once. He was in tonight, sitting at this table, but left a few minutes ago.

As the new girl, I’ve never worked this section.

I’ve also never felt so intimidated approaching any of the patrons here as I do walking over tohim.

If he’s sitting at Mr. Vance’s table, he must be a VIP.

He’s not looking at me right now. He’s looking at his phone. He doesn’t lift his eyes from the screen or show any sign that he knows I’ve approached the table, until I say, “Hello,” and lean in to place a cocktail napkin in front of him.

He meets my eyes—and I almost jerk back. That dark look says,Don’t come near me.

I think I startled him.

We stare at each other as my face heats. “Can I bring you a drink?”

When he finally speaks, he says one word to me, and that word is his drink order. “Manhattan.”

His voice is sinuous and dark, like liquid chocolate.

Oh my god. He’s so sexy.

Maybe the lighting is just that much more exceptional in this corner—I don’t think so—but he looks about two-hundred percent more beautiful up close.

Moments later, when I’ve scraped my shit together and swing back with his drink, I find him typing on his phone. I can’t help peeking at his phone screen, the object of his attention.

It looks like a text message, but I can’t read it.

“What are you working on?”

He stops typing.

I’ve casually asked other patrons what they’re working on, when they’re on their laptop or phone. They don’t seem to mind. If they don’t want to talk business with me, they just deflect to something else. Often, they take the opening to flirt.

But when Mr. Black’s eyes lift to mine, his prickling silence tells me that his business is not my business.

“I’m so sorry.” And now my face is heating all over again. “I don’t mean to interrupt you.” When I put his drink down, I notice that the cocktail napkin has been moved directly in front of him, the edge perfectly parallel with the straight edge of the table. I didn’t place it like that; it’s so purposeful.

I meet his gaze again, and find myself struggling for words. “Uh, my name’s Quinn, if you need anything.”

His stony eyes seem to say,Turn around and walk away, Quinn.

So that is exactly what I do, feeling a little wobbly in my high heels. I shouldn’t have hovered. Maybe he thought I was sniffing around for tip money?

Yes, I’m here for the money. But I’ve never felt so cheap about it.

At the bar, I stack cocktail napkins on my tray and try not to stare at him across the room. I just gave him my real name. That’s a first.