All The Rules I Break (The Rules of Higher Magic #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

The bar is dead. You’d be able to hear a cocktail pick drop if it wasn’t for the ambient jazz playing softly through the speakers.

I’ve been zoning out, cleaning the water marks on the same wineglass for way too long.

If there were anyone here, they would think I’d short-circuited.

It’s always slow on Wednesdays. Bartending at an upscale hotel lounge means peak business and thus premium tips coincide with the busiest travel days.

But even on slow nights, I’m usually able to keep myself somewhat busy and mildly entertained to a background score of shifting ice, clinking glasses, and the low hum of conversation.

However, this particular Wednesday is so mind-numbingly quiet that I’ve been stuck hashing out the same argument that I’ve been having with myself for the last two months, over and over again.

The same argument my better judgment keeps losing.

I’ve been in Portland for almost eight months, which is awfully close to violating Rule Number One.

I’ll admit, recently I’ve been daydreaming of a slightly more flexible lifestyle—where I could stretch and bend The Rules until they could teach pilates.

Hence the self-flagellation in the form of my incessant internal argument.

However flexible The Rules are in my daydreams, in reality they can’t even touch their toes, so this has to be my last month in Portland.

Rule Number One: Keep moving. Never stay anywhere more than eight months—better to move within six.

Always be ready to run at a moment’s notice.

Rule Number Two: No identifying information; use fake names, change your appearance often, and work under the table when you can.

And most importantly, Rule Number Three: Don’t form any long-term attachments; friends are temporary and sex is one-night stands.

Considering I moved in with my situationship three months ago, Dmitri would have said I’ve gotten a bit lax on the last one.

Though, I would argue it isn’t a “long-term attachment,” more a convenient housing situation with benefits.

Portland’s not the nicest place I’ve lived, but it’s nowhere near the worst. Sure, rent’s ridiculously expensive, and the cost of living is a nightmare that could turn even M.

Night Shyamalan’s blood cold. But I like the weather.

And Eli’s not so bad; plus, he pays half the rent…

most of the time. And then there’s my job—a well-paying, cushy, at least for service work, gig.

How I was able to convince the bar manager of the Huxley Hotel to hire me with a fake ID and no social security number, I may never know.

Although, it might have had something to do with my low-cut dress and ability to smile and feign my way through just about anything.

What’s the opposite of imposter syndrome? I think I might have that.

When you move as much as I do, you get really good at faking it. “It” being job requisites, government documents, personal histories, and familiarity with just about any person, place, or thing…any noun really.

“Are you trying to impress Miss Hannigan with that wineglass?” A rich, deep voice at the bar pulls me out of my internal spiral.

“What?” I glance at the aforementioned wineglass in my hand.

“Oh right, just call me Little Orphan Annie,” I respond dryly as I set it down.

I look up at quite possibly the most attractive man I’ve ever seen as he slides into a seat at my bar with the predatory grace of an osprey.

God, he’s tall, and even with the undoubtedly bespoke navy suit he’s wearing, I can tell he works out, like a lot.

His face is all intense, well-defined angles and prominent cheekbones.

His neatly groomed facial hair covers a stiletto-sharp jawline that sits at an angle I’m sure has a proper name I would definitely know if I paid better attention in high school geometry class. Let me just pick my jaw off the floor.

His deep-set silver eyes crease slightly as he volleys back, “Well, you already have the red curly hair. Though we would need to cut quite a few inches.”

“It will be a cold day in hell before I cut this hair,” I say with a smile.

I spent the last three years recovering from a particularly bad DIY bleach job and finally had gotten my hair back to my preferred deep red color.

Unfortunately, Rule Number Two requires sacrifice, so soon it will likely be sweater weather in hell.

“What can I get you?” I try with all my might to remember to act like a normal human. Am I speaking too loudly? How many times a minute do people blink? Is this how much eye contact I usually make?

“I will have a Macallan 25, neat please.” His long, light brown fingers gently tap the bar, showing off a watch that 100 percent costs more than I make in a year. Okay, Zaddy Warbucks.

“Sure thing.” I turn to the backbar, where a vast array of artisanal spirits and rare vintages are displayed.

Of course our ultra-premium whisky is on the topmost marble shelf and requires me to use the stepladder.

As I climb, I feel his eyes sweep up the back of my legs, from high heel to hem.

I really hope I didn’t miss that pesky spot on the back of my thigh shaving today.

I somehow manage to acquire the bottle and dismount the ladder without dropping over two thousand worth of scotch. A win for me.

“Are you traveling for business or pleasure?” I set his drink down.

Sure, I know the answer already. Business.

This hotel caters to wealthy businessmen, and in a suit like that, I’ve no doubt he’s working.

I ask anyway, hoping to provide just the right level of friendly service for a tip that’s proportional to the price of the scotch.

The left side of his mouth twitches. “Business.” His eyes meet mine as he brings his tumbler to his lips.

“What do you do for work?”

His brow creases slightly as he looks down into his drink. “I work in government.”

“Interesting,” I respond, while knowing full well that no man wearing a silk Dior tie works in government, but it’s obvious he doesn’t want to talk about his job and I don’t want to risk losing a fat tip, so I keep my mouth shut.

I leave him to his scotch, busying myself with cleaning a spotless coupe glass.

We continue like that for some time, him drinking in silence and me pretending to clean the already immaculate bar.

This isn’t the kind of place with a TV and he doesn’t pull out a phone.

His eyes glide over me, like a phantom breeze sending goose bumps over my skin.

Every time I glance in his direction, he’s looking right at me.

It’s a disconcerting sensation, to be so closely examined.

I want to say something to take the pressure off the weighted silence, to try to strike up a not off-limits, non-business-related conversation, but my lips feel like concrete slabs and my tongue like lead.

Which, when I think about it, is kind of odd for me because if my tongue is anything, it’s a bulldozer pushing through the rubble of conversation while I smile like I belong behind the wheel.

“Where are you from?” Mr. Pretend Civil Servant clears his throat. “I mean, are you from around here?”

I turn back to him, all smiles. “Yep, born and raised.” Lie. “Haven’t even left the West Coast.” Lie.

“Are you a college student?” His head tilts like a bird of prey.

“Nope.” Truth. “But I have a pretty fancy bartending certificate.” Truth. Though only because I have mad Photoshop skills. “Where are you traveling from?” I ask now that we’re apparently in the conversational period of the evening.

“East Coast.”

Oh so specific. This guy loves a two-word answer apparently. He gives me another once-over, but his gaze lacks the heated interest men typically look at me with. He studies me with an almost clinical assessment; deep within the silver of his eyes, there’s an undercurrent of something formidable.

“Do you know what to do for fun around here?” he inquires, flashing me a stunning smile, breaking our staring contest.

“Sure, there’s the night market on Adler.

They just increased their hours, so they are open weeknights.

Or there’s a roller derby tonight. And then there’s this lively place”—I gesture around the completely empty lounge—“where the bartenders are all great conversationalists with award-winning personalities, who never ask invasive questions like ‘What do you do for work’ and ‘Where are you traveling from’ to presumably clandestine patrons.” Oh good, my bulldozer mouth decided to make an appearance.

I attempt to cover up my social faux pas with the brightest smile in history.

Letting out a short breath that could almost be considered a laugh, if examined under a microscope, he stands and takes the last sip of his drink. “Charge it to room 623?”

I guess we’re done here. “You got it.” I grin brightly.

He murmurs a quick thanks as he takes out his wallet, laying a few bills down on the bar. “Well, it was nice chatting with you, Miss…?” The last word hangs there in a way that seems deliberately nonchalant.

“Sunny.” Lie. “I go by Sunny.” Truth… for now. He nods once before walking across the hall to the elevators. I pocket the stack of crisp bills he left; he may be stingy with conversation, but he’s not with tipping.

I just need two more weekends to rake in some extra cash, and then it’s goodbye Portland.