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What’s he doing sleeping in a hotel, though?

It bugs me more than I want to admit, seeing him at the job agency, then here. I don’t believe in fate — if anything, coincidences make me nervous. So instead of letting it go like a smart person would, I prod Orion for info during a lull.

“What’s up with that guy from the other day, the fruity drink dude?”

Orion bursts into laughter. He grabs the bar, doubling up. “Fruity drink dude? You mean Pr — uh, Lysander? Don’t let him hear you say that.”

“What’s his deal? You seem to know him. Why’s he so…" What did Orion say? “Particular? Is he one of those out-of-touch old money kids?”

Orion grabs a glass and scoops some ice into it. “Something like that. He keeps to himself, but he’s not a snob or anything. He’s just… not super well socialized. Though you wouldn’t know it when he gets on stage.”

It’s my turn to laugh, except Orion is serious. “Nota snob? I saw you bow when you brought his dinner over.”

“Well, I — that’s just — it’s hard to explain.”

He caps the shaker and rattles it vigorously, cutting off any possible conversation. Orion stammering is weird enough to put me off, so I take the hint and let it go.

Something about that explanation still doesn’t sit right, though. When I look up later to find Lysander at the far end of the bar, I feel it again.Flick.

I’m getting to the bottom of this guy.

The clamor of the music and the emcee drown out Orion’s bright “I’ll get it!” Or at least it’s a convenient excuse to pretend I don’t hear him. I wipe my hands on my apron and slip past Plato as he’s pulling glasses out of the washer. He yelps, the dishes rattling. I ignore him and slide up to Lysander, who’s become distracted by the start of the show.

“I didn’t think this would be your scene.”

He jumps. Honest to god leaps four inches into the air. By the time he turns to me, he’s got thatdrop-dead-peasantlook firmly in place.

“My usual,” he says, ignoring my comment.

“One Sugary Mess coming right up.” I whip out a glass.

He scowls. “What?”

“Well, it needed a name. I can’t exactly call it the Pretty Boy Special.” I tried one myself, minus the stuff in the special bottle, and it’s tooth-achingly sweet. He drankthreeof them my first shift. “You must be made of sugar if you’re drinking these all the time.”

I anticipate a snippy reply, but he blushes.

“I — I just like sweet things,” he stammers, eyes wide.

Well, fuck.My pulse thumps loudly and I can feel the back of my neck heating up. I did not expect him to get flustered, or to be cute as hell when he does. I duck under the bar to pull the Tupperware of maraschino cherries out of the fridge, even though I don’t really need to crouch for that. When I resurface, Lysander’s eyes are shuttered again. I’m almost relieved.

Almost.

“Are you only here for the drinks, then?”

“I come to support the performers,” he says, tilting his chin as if he’s expecting me to argue.

“You do?” I can’t the skepticism.

Lysander huffs. “What of it?”

I claw back to neutral. I don’t want to offend him — honestly. Just tease him a bit. “I don’t mean it that way. You know them, then?”

A frisson of unhappiness crosses his slender face. He’s got that aristocratic look, with hooded eyes and model cheekbones, and the expression humanizes him. “Not really.”

“Orion said you go on stage. Do you perform?”

Lysander avoids my eyes. “Yes, but that’s not why. I make costumes for some of them.”