“It is a surprise to see you again.” I find myself reaching out, my hand ghosting her face, her beautiful face, half in shadow, half ivory in the lamplight. “I thought I’d imagined you.” Imagined her that night. Imagined her inside, in the ballroom. I watch as she swallows over the matching ball of emotion lodged in my throat. I want to place my tongue there. My teeth. Feel the vibration of her want as I do.
But I don’t. Not here. Not now.
For her sake, not ever again.
“I’ve thought about you, Holland. Thought about you more than I care to admit to myself. Care to admit to you.”
Her tongue darts out to moisten her full bottom lip, and she swallows again. “I made an impression?”
“You made a few of them.” I watch as she fails to stifle a small smile of pleasure, the effect of smile like a burst of confetti in my chest. “Some longer lasting than others.” I find myself absently swiping my thumb against my bottom lip, almost as though I could still taste her kiss.
Her expression shifts from hesitant to hopeful and I find I have to slide my hands into my pockets to stop myself again from reaching out.
“Hey, Holly,” calls a voice from somewhere behind me. Young. Female. Probably a colleague. “Mo wants to know if you went to Russia to get the caviar.”
“Damn, the box,” she whispers. “I forgot I was supposed to take it to the kitchen.”
“I didn’t realise you were busy.” The young woman’s voice leaks with suggestion as, by the sounds of her shoes against the cobblestones, she skips closer to us.
“Please tell Mo, I’ve detained Holly and that she will be along shortly.”
“A long shortie?” the young woman sing-songs back. But the words are barely in the air when I shoot her a frigid glance over my shoulder. She stops dead in her tracks, recognising me. “A-absolutely. I’ll tell Mo she’ll be along when you’re done with her. When you’re done here. I mean, whenever you’re done what you’re doing here.”
She seems to shake her head at her own ridiculousness before she scurries—not skips—back the way she came.
“What the heck was that all about?” Holland asks.
I chose to ignore the question as rhetorical.
“Well?”
Perhaps not.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” I offer blandly.
“Her.” She points at the gate. “What was that all about because she wasn’t struck stupid by your looks.”
“You don’t think so?”
“Don’t try to be cute.”
“I thought it just came naturally.”
As though testing the hypothesis, her gaze falls to my shoulders and meanders down my chest. “You’re too big to be cute.” Her lips slam closed with a scowl. “And why the heck isn’t she worried about me, standing out here in the dark, alone with the devil in his Sunday suit?”
“This is a good suit,” I agree, unable to stop myself this time from reaching out, opting to pinch an invisible piece of lint from the shoulder of the jacket she’s wearing. “Even if I’m only wearing half of it.”
Was that a flinch or a shudder? The latter, as she ignores my provocation, her eyes darting away. It’s ridiculous that I feel some sense of disappointment that she’s not playing along. Like she did with Griffin.
“She should be worried you’re trying to talk me out of my appetisers.” Her gaze flares belatedly. “I didn’t mean—”
“I don’t remember needing to talk you out of anything,” I purr, even if purring is the opposite of what I should be doing.
“I just meant, I’m at work and you . . . you’re a punter, I guess.”
The word sounds strange on her lips, but it does make me wonder how long she’s lived in London. I shake off the unhappy thought, feeling conflicted again.
“Perhaps it is the suit that frightened her off. And aversion to authority?” I hazard.
“I guess she’s probably not long out of school.” She frowns in the girl’s direction.
Not long out of school. A waitress. The words loop though my brain, along with wrong and fucking hypocrite.
Didn’t I just warn Griffin from doing this very thing? Taking advantage of . . . one of the waitresses. The younger waitresses. Meanwhile, I want to pluck this one up from where she stands, throw her over my shoulder, and carry her up the back stairs to one of the bedrooms.
Which only goes to prove I’ve lost my mind.
Fuck.
I can’t do this. I need to leave. Go back to my duty and ignore this clawing demand. But instead, I find myself asking,
“How old are you, Holland?”
“No one calls me Holland. I mostly answer to Holly. Sometimes Hols. Sometimes hey, you, bring that tray of crostini’s over here!”
“I prefer Holland,” I murmur, ignoring the rest. That she’s evading means . . . what?
“It’s a little too late in the day to ask now, isn’t it?”
Jesus fucking Christ, I hope not.
“I’m older than Dana.” Her once more gaze flicks behind me, obviously discerning where the question came from. “She’s barely out of high school.”
And here you are, both doing the same job, the vicious part of my mind whispers.
“I’ve been legal for a long while, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m not worried, but I do have questions.”
“I’m twenty-four.” Her chin lifts as she delivers her edict.
“You look younger.” At least, she does tonight. Her face scrubbed of makeup, all that luxurious hair scraped back.
“Well, now you know I’m practically ancient. You can begin to breathe again.”
“I’m sorry. It’s all just a little much. I don’t ordinarily—”
“Oh, honey,” she says, her words turning sharp, “I think that’s supposed to be my line.”
My jaw flexes, my temper flaring.
“How well do you know Griffin?” I try my best to pretend her ridiculous attitude and her cocked hip mean nothing to me, knowing full well I am the cause of it. This meeting, here, now, and the mixed signals I must be giving out. In an ideal world, I could just say it. Say that I want her, that I’ve been unable to think of much else but her since that night. That she invades my dreams nightly, that the phantom scent of her floral perfume has made me stop more than one brunette out on the street. That night was the best and the worst thing to ever happen to me. I can’t ever have her again. Liar or not, she deserves better than to be entangled with me.
“I don’t,” she grates out. “Like I said, I met him at a dinner party at a time I wasn’t serving food.” It’s hard to tell why her attitude deepens. Is she affronted or embarrassed? It’s hard to tell. “I don’t normally work as a server.” Embarrassment then. “Not that there’s anything wrong with being a server, because we should all be allowed to dance to the beat of our own drum.”
“Yes. And I imagine you do.” The woman is unconventional. Or at least, I thought so. Unconventional or a liar. Possibly both.
“It’s an honest way to make a living, but it isn’t what I ordinarily do.” Her spine straightens, the glint of challenge flaring in her gaze. “I’m just . . . between positions. Currently.”