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As I return directly to his table, he watches me approach. He’s fixated on me now, and I feel the pull like hot, sticky glue.

What the hell is going on?

I lay down a fresh cocktail napkin, perfectly parallel to the edge of the table, the way he did it, and set his Manhattan down. “May I get you anything else?” NotCan I.May I.It’s like I’m begging him to let me serve him. I don’t recognize the needy tone of my own voice.

Or the thirst I feel.

His gaze flicks down to my hand, which I realize is pressed to the table. I’m leaning over him a little. Hell, I’m holding myself up, he’s got me so twisted.

His eyes meet mine and hold for one excruciating moment. “Not right now.”

I stand up straight, nod politely, and walk away to check on my other tables. Breathing deeply. He’s not that intimidating. He’s just a man.

A man who employs me and thinks I’m an idiot.

I need to keep an eye on his table. On his glass. Or maybe find someone else to serve him? Avoid him altogether?

Not only is he one of my new employers, he’s a man-sized red flag. And that red flag reads:danger. The Vances are billionaires. They’re powerful. My life is complicated enough without attracting the attention—or the animosity—of someone who could destroy me.

Mom needs me, and I can’t fail her.

But when I circle back around to check on him, he’s gone.

His drink sits on the table, barely touched. I find two crisp one-hundred dollar bills lying beside it.

“Thank god.” Alessandra comes up behind me. “Is he gone?”

“Uh-huh. He left me two hundred, for two drinks.” I show her the money. “He didn’t even drink the second one.”

“That’s not for the drinks, hon. The Vances don’t pay for drinks here. That’s foryou.”

“Oh.” I can’t understand why he’d leave me so much after he reprimanded me like that. “Maybe he made a mistake?”

She regards my turquoise hair with curiosity. “Or… maybe the man who hates everything finally found something he likes.”

Chapter 3

Quinn

“Mr. Vance would like to see you in his office,” says the man with the haughty voice over the phone. “Can you come in at eleven?”

This is not good.

This is so,sonot good.

Yes, I can come in at eleven. But hell no, I don’t want to.

“Um, any chance we could reschedule?”For, say, never.“I have a lot of?—”

“Mr. Vance is a busy man, Miss Monroe,” says the man, now with an even haughtier voice, who identified himself as “Brant, calling from the office of Harlan Vance,” when I answered my cell. “You wouldn’t want to know the level of disappointment that would cause.”

Oh-kay. That’s terrifying.

I get the feeling that bydisappointmenthe might actually meanpunishment.

“I understand. Yes, I’ll be there.”

“Wonderful. Vance Tower. Financial office. Tell security you have an appointment. Don’t be late.” He hangs up on me.