Page 3 of Wonder

“Nowhere I’m in a rush to get back to.” He lifts it, nodding in thanks. “What’s your name?”

“Alyss Lidell.” My leg brushes against his as I shift on the bar stool. “Yours?”

“Hatter.”

I glance at him fully then, unable to hide my surprise. And slight irritation, since I gave him my actual name. “That the name your mother gave you?”

He smiles slightly. “No. But it’s the name I was given.”

A club name, then.

I survey him again, a little more slowly this time. I don’t recognise him. “You from the Spades? Diamonds?”

I can only imagine the heart attack Chess would have if I took a rival gang member home for a night of fucking.

But he only frowns, looking genuinely confused. “I… no.”

I’m getting more and more curious now. Because anyone in this city would recognise those names. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

His brows draw down. “No. I’m here for… work. You ask a lot of questions, Alyss Lidell.”

I hide my smile in my glass.

“Well,” I say finally. He waits patiently for a response, not pushing into the silence. “I’m interviewing you, as it happens.”

Burnt golden eyes meet mine. “What for?”

I hold his gaze. “A temporary contract. One night only.”

His pupils contract; a deep, bronze flush spreading over sharp cheekbones as if he’s genuinely surprised. “I see.”

Studying his hands, the slim elegance of his ringless fingers as they wrap around his drink, I check. “You’re single?”

For a scant second, darkness flits over his face. “I… yes.”

I hesitate at that look. Because I recognise it, see it in my own reflection far too often. “Should I stop?”

Part of me hopes he says yes.

But the rest of me wonders if I would stop, if I wouldn’t push just a little more. If I wouldn’t ask a second time, just in case.

Because Iwanthim. Want this sad, beautiful man with a desperation that makes my stomach clench as I wait.

I haven’t wanted anything I could actuallyhavein a long time.

Hatter’s foot slips between mine on the stool I’m balancing on. My breath catches as his fingers move to stroke over the top of my hand. His touch is cool, sending tingles up my arm.

Not enough.

“No,” he says quietly. “Don’t stop.”

Thank fuck for that.

I push down the guilt that threatens to rise up my throat, pushing away any thoughts of Chess. I’ve made my position clear, more than a few times.

He continues those slow, curling touches as we order another drink. Flipping my hand over, he draws some sort of symbol in my palm. “Do you enjoy riddles, Alyss Lidell?”

I raise my eyebrows. “I suppose so. I enjoy a challenge.”