1. Lara
Chapter 1
Lara
I t took me a long time to realize my mother was insane. Maybe insane isn’t the right word. It might be better to say she’s a bit unhinged or slightly off her rocker—a woman who constantly thinks we’re being watched, and when she’s in one of her downward spirals, insists on covering our windows in foil so no one can peek in, despite the fact that we live on the fourth floor and our building faces a busy street that no one gives a shit about, and beyond that is nothing but a solid brick wall. However you dress it up, it boils down to my mom being a bit of a nut.
This isn’t something I just woke up and knew. It was a slow process that took years, but in my defense, I was just a kid, so what the hell did I know? I knew my mom constantly talked about my dad as if he were alive and about to walk through the door at any moment, but then the next second she’d go into a rage about the Melnikov family and how they’d killed her only love and left me without a dad. I also knew that when I mentioned it to my teacher, who then brought it up to my mom, it was the one and only time she'd ever smacked me. I could see the regret written all over her face and the horror in her eyes as she took a step back and looked at the hand that had struck me like she didn’t recognize it, like it must’ve been someone else’s hand that had hit me, and then she’d dropped to her knees and hugged me like I was the only thing keeping her head above water as she drowned in memories that I’ve never been allowed to know about.
That’s when I learned to keep my mouth shut, and I never brought anything up at school again. I kept my distance, stuck to myself, and learned to disappear. It’s really not so hard to be invisible. Most people want to stand out, so when someone willingly takes a step back, others are always more than happy to step in and take the spotlight. The habits I learned in school are the same ones that control my life now. I’ll be twenty soon, and I still immediately find the darkest corner in a room, still duck my head when walking down the sidewalk, and rarely say a word to anyone unless I have to.
Keeping my head low, I pick up my pace so I can scoot around a group of tourists before ducking down a side alley that looks like a good way to get murdered but is really just a shortcut to my job. I’d been stunned when I’d gotten the job as a waitress at La Dolce Vita a couple of months ago. Since I turned fifteen, my life has been one bad waitressing job after another, but thanks to a really impressive fake ID that’s been worth every penny of the steep price tag, I’ve slowly been working my way up and out of the shitty diners and smaller clubs that bring in equally shit tips. My mom still thinks I’m working at Ria’s , a popular nightclub that’s closer to where we live, but the tips weren’t good enough there, and they kept cutting my shifts. I’d applied at La Dolce Vita on a whim, never expecting to get the job at the most popular club in the city, but when I’d gotten the job offer, I’d accepted immediately.
Slipping in the back, I nod to the bouncer on duty. I’m not sure why a bouncer needs to be assigned to the back door, but I do know I’m never going to ask about it. This job pays really well, but there’s a reason I won’t ever tell my mom I work here. She would lose her shit if she knew I was waitressing in this part of the city, the part that’s rumored to be run by the Alessi Mafia and the very club that’s owned by the supposed don himself—Dominic Alessi, who just happens to be married to Natalya Melnikov. For as long as I can remember, my mom’s warned me about the Bratva, insisting that they killed my father and that they’d like nothing more than to kill me too, but I’ve never seen any proof of this, and if someone is gunning for my life, they’ve clearly hired the world’s most incompetent hitman because they’re doing a shit-poor job of it. I’m an easy target if there ever was one, but no one’s ever come after me.
My mom is delusional, and my dad was probably some asshole she had a one-night stand with, some dick who didn’t want to take responsibility. I really doubt he was anyone who would be on the Melnikovs’ radar.
I’m about to slip into the bathroom to check my hair before my shift starts when a man I recognize as one of the higher-ups blocks my path. I look up at him, forcing myself to not take a step back at the sheer size of the man. He towers over my five-five height, and the dark look in his eyes has me hoping like hell I’m not about to get fired.
“We’re short a girl tonight.” The thick Italian accent is beautiful, but the tone is hard and not at all friendly. “I need you to fill in upstairs.”
I glance over at the staircase that’s forbidden to everyone except a select few. I’ve been curious about what’s up there, but this place doesn’t invite questions.
Before I lose my nerve, I meet his eyes and say, “I’m not a stripper.”
“This isn’t a strip club,” he says, and the tone makes it clear that he thinks I’m a dumbass. “You’ll be serving drinks, same as down here.” His eyes run over the long-sleeve, black, henley shirt I’m wearing. “Why are you wearing that?”
I curl my fingers up, gripping the sleeves of the shirt in a comforting move that I’ve been doing for as long as I can remember, reassuring myself that my skin is covered. No one sees my bare arms.
“Breanna said I could wear it when she hired me. She said as long as it was black and form-fitting and I still wear the skirt that it would be fine.”
He thinks about it and then points to the buttons at the top of my shirt that are done all the way up. “If you unbutton those, you’ll get more tips.”
He doesn’t say it in a pervy way. It’s more like he’s giving me a bit of advice, but when I don’t immediately reach up to start showing more skin, he just shrugs his broad shoulders. “Suit yourself.”
When he turns and starts to walk over to the staircase, I assume I’m supposed to follow, so I do. At the bottom of the stairs, he stops and points at me while saying something in Italian to the bouncer who’s always standing guard, making sure no one sneaks upstairs who isn’t allowed. The man’s in dark jeans and a black T-shirt that hugs him like a second skin, and I don’t need to know him to know that there’s no way in hell I’d ever want to be on the receiving end of his anger. You’d have to be an absolute moron to try and sneak by this guy.
The man who’d stopped me in the hall looks over his shoulder at me. “You’re Lara, right?”
“Yeah,” I say, and then feeling at a disadvantage, I ask, “What’s your name?”
“I’m Dario.” He nods to the bouncer. “This is Marco.”
The only reaction Marco gives is a slight rise of his pierced brow, and then he turns his attention back to Dario while they have a short conversation in Italian. I look around while I wait. The club is always packed, and tonight is no exception. Bodies fill the dance floor, and every table is full. I catch sight of blonde curls as Janet speed walks through the section that would have been mine tonight, tray full of drinks and wearing the recommended uniform—a black, low-cut tank top and a black skirt. As far as uniforms go, it’s not all that bad. Honestly, I was expecting something way more pervy.
“Follow me,” Dario says, pulling my attention back to him.
I take the stairs right behind him, and when he opens the door at the top, I’m too curious to be nervous. The only people I’ve ever seen come up here are men in suits that probably cost more than I make in a year and the waitresses that I’ve never interacted with. I seriously thought they had a private strip club area up here, and I never wanted anything to do with it. I need tips, but I’m not willing to strip to get them. God, just the thought of dancing naked while strange men look at me has my cheeks heating up. I like my skin covered as much as possible. You can’t blend in if you’re half-naked and dancing around a pole.
I’m a little surprised when I step into a dark and deserted hall. This isn’t at all the nefarious place I’d been picturing.
“Told you it wasn’t a stripping job,” Dario says, noticing my confusion. He points to a door at the end of the hall. “That’s where we’re going, but first we need to have a talk.”
“Uh-oh,” I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them. “That doesn’t sound good.”
His dark eyes run over me, taking me in, but there’s nothing but mild curiosity in them. He’s not checking me out or hitting on me. It’s more like he’s trying to gauge how I’ll react to whatever he’s going to say next.
“We allow gambling up here, high-stakes gambling, and it’s by invitation only.”
He can tell I’m surprised, but when I don’t attempt to run away from what is most definitely an illegal operation going on up here, he gives me a slight nod of approval.
“Your job is to remain in the background and serve drinks when someone wants one. That’s it. These men are serious gamblers, and they don’t want distractions. Do you think you can handle being invisible?”
I can’t help but give a small smile. “I think I can handle that.”
He gives a small nod, accepting me at my word and walks beside me, guiding me towards the closed door.
“Any tips you earn are yours.”
Before he can open the door, I quickly ask, “Why did you pick me for this tonight?”
“I watch everyone in this club, and you’re a hard worker. You’re on time for every shift, you memorize drink orders easily, and you don’t ever fuck them up. That’s what we need up here. These men don’t want to stop their game to tell you what they want. They expect you to already know it, and as soon as they raise a hand, they want you to move your ass and get them what they want. Do well tonight, Lara, and we might keep you up here permanently.”
I nod and take a calming breath before he opens the door, ushering me into a room that’s way bigger than I was expecting. For some reason, I had an image of a dark room, men huddled around a small table, cigars hanging from the corners of their mouths with clouds of smoke above their heads. The room I step into is not at all that.
Once Dario shuts the door, the loud music from downstairs disappears, and all I can hear is soft classical music playing from hidden speakers and the clink of chips as the men place bets around a large, extravagant table. It’s shaped like a half-circle with the dealer in the center, but it’s big enough for the eight men gathered around it, each of them taking up space without it feeling crowded.
The lighting is low, but not too dark, just enough to create a calming ambiance for the men who are hyper-focused on the cards in their hands. Not a single one of them turns at the sound of Dario and me walking in. I quickly scan the table of men. They vary in age and appearance, probably mid-twenties to late sixties, and as different as they look, they all have one thing in common—money and power. These are men who have money to lose but are dead set on not being parted from it. I almost laugh at my earlier fear about having to strip. I’m guessing not even a naked woman shaking her ass and tits would get these guys to look away from the cards in their hands or the huge pile of chips at the center of the table.
Dario lightly nudges me and nods his head to the corner of the room. I glance over and see a woman standing behind a small bar. I’ve never seen her before, but she gives me a friendly smile when I walk over to join her. Motioning for me to step behind the bar, she keeps her hand out and shakes mine as soon as I’m close enough.
“I’m Gabby,” she whispers, leaning in closer so her voice won’t travel to the gambling table.
I keep my voice as low as hers. “I’m Lara.”
Judging by the nearly empty glasses I see, we don’t have much time, so she cuts to the chase and says, “You’re responsible for the four men on the right. The older guy with the godawful striped tie takes whiskey with exactly two ice cubes, an Old Fashioned for the man next to him with a mustache, and make sure you use a sugar cube and not syrup or you’ll never hear the end of it. The blond man next to him is having a Tom Collins, and the dark-haired guy who’s currently losing his ass off is having a dry martini with vodka, not gin.”
She looks over at me. “You got that?”
“Yeah,” I whisper, already repeating the orders over and over again in my head so I won’t forget, and as soon as Dry Martini raises his hand, I’m grabbing a clean glass and getting to work.
Even though I only have four customers, I feel more stressed than I ever did on the main floor, more so than even on crazy nights when all my tables were packed and the customers were loud and obnoxious and constantly messing up their own drink orders. None of that compares to the men at the table in front of me, all of them deadly serious and showing no signs of leaving, even though they’ve now been playing for well over three hours. The dealer never asks for a drink, and his focus never waivers from the players in front of him. Whiskey has a nervous habit of fingering one of his chips while he watches the other players, Old Fashioned likes to stroke his mustache, Tom Collins doesn’t fidget at all, just sits like a fucking statue, and Dry Martini is barely scraping by, and I’m truly surprised he’s even still in the game.
When Gabby leans over to whisper that each chip is worth fifty grand, I nearly choke on my own spit. There’s more money sitting at that table than I will ever see in my lifetime, and they’re tossing it around like it’s no big deal. Just one of those damn chips would be life-changing for my mom and me, but for them it’s just a minor annoyance when they lose one. It kind of makes me want to kick every single one of them in the balls.
The game lasts for six hours, and when one of the men that Gabby’s been serving, Mr. Straight Bourbon and Make it a Double, finally wins the enormous pot, I’m more than ready to call it a night. It’s not that the work has been as hectic as working on the main floor, but I feel the pressure more up here. Maybe it’s because of the wealth, or maybe it’s because I know Dario is watching my every move to make sure I don’t fuck anything up. These men are obviously clients they want to keep around. I’m guessing the club takes a percentage of the pot, so if someone is going to be asked to leave this room and never come back, it’s not going to be the men who just dropped hundreds of thousands of dollars.
As they stand to leave, Gabby nudges me with her elbow, indicating that I should follow her. She stops next to Dario, so we’re lined up by the door as the men walk out. I follow Gabby’s lead, pasting a smile on my face as Old Fashioned makes his way over to us. I’m surprised when he slips us each a bill with a nod of his head before the other men file past and do the same.
I don’t want to be rude and count what they’re handing me in front of them, but as soon as they’re out the door, I look down at my hand and nearly faint. They’d each given me a hundred dollars. Eight hundred fucking dollars for six hours of work.
“Not bad, right?”
I look up at Gabby’s smiling face. “How much does the club take?”
She shakes her head and smiles even bigger. “Not a goddamn cent, and this,” she says, raising her own pile of hundreds, “is all under the table. Mr. Alessi still gives us a paycheck like usual, so all this is just extra.”
“How often do they have poker games up here?”
She grabs her purse from behind the bar and shrugs her shoulders. “Usually every Friday and Saturday night, but sometimes they’ll schedule a game during the week.”
I quickly do the math and realize I could be making over two thousand for three nights of work. How the hell is this position even open?
“What happened to the girl I filled in for?”
Gabby’s smile drops as she leans her hip against the bar. “She was an idiot. She liked the tips a little too much and decided she’d rather try and find herself a sugar daddy. She got caught fucking the guy who won tonight. When the boss found out, he quickly fired her ass. There’s too much money at stake, and if any of the other men found out that the girl serving them drinks is also in bed with one of the players, shit is going to go bad fast. They’re already paranoid about cheating.”
She stops and points at several of the light fixtures along the wall.
“That’s why every game is videotaped from every angle. The men can request to view the tapes if they feel like any cheating is going on.”
“What happens if anyone ever gets caught cheating?”
She sighs and scoots off from the counter. “I don’t want to know the answer to that. I’d much rather keep my job here. I have a three-year-old, and being able to stay home and take care of him during the week means everything to me. I’m not going to risk that by doing something stupid like sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong or trying to fuck one of these old, rich dudes. No thanks.”
I can’t help but smile at her. I like Gabby, and I hope I’m able to keep working with her.
“What’s your son’s name?”
“Oliver, but I call him Ollie.” She smiles and pulls her phone out of her back pocket, swiping the screen and showing me a photo. He’s adorable—chubby cheeks, big, brown eyes, and a huge smile spread across his face. He looks just like his mom, even down to the same shade of honey-blonde hair.
“He’s beautiful,” I tell her.
She gets a sappy, sweet smile on her face, the look some mothers get when they talk about their kids, and I wonder if my mom ever looked that way about me. I only ever see her give smiles like that when she’s thinking about my dad.
“Thanks,” Gabby says. “His dad and I knew we’d be shit as a married couple, but we’ve kept on good terms for Ollie’s sake. He babysits him when I work, so that’s nice, and Ollie loves seeing him.”
“That’s really great that you two could work something out.”
“Yeah.” She gives a soft laugh and rolls her eyes. “His girlfriend’s a real piece of work, but thankfully they’re not living together and James is pretty protective of his time with our son, so it’s always just him at the apartment. ”
“Maybe you’ll get lucky and they’ll break up.”
She laughs and digs her keys out of her purse. “Here’s hoping.”
When we get to the bottom of the stairs, she turns back to say, “It was nice meeting you. I hope we get to work together again.”
“Me too,” I tell her before she slips into the crowd, making her way to the back hallway. I look over at Marco, not sure if I should just leave or if I’m supposed to finish the shift I would’ve had tonight.
He puts me out of my misery by saying, “Boss wants to see you in his office.”
“Okay.” The music easily drowns out my whispered reply as I look in the direction of the office I’ve never once been allowed into. Intimidated doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel when I force my feet to move towards the dark hall Gabby had just disappeared down. I’m too focused on what I’m going to say and not paying nearly enough attention to the crowded club I’m in. When a large man bumps into me, knocking me off balance, I don’t stand a chance of righting myself in time. I go down hard, my ass taking the brunt of it, and it’s only pure luck that I don’t flash everyone around me. Since the usual spandex shorts I wear under my skirts were dirty, I’m only wearing my sensible cotton panties, and I consider it a mini miracle that my thighs instinctively close, one I’m profoundly grateful for.
I’m about to swallow my pride and bring myself to standing when someone offers me a hand—a tattooed one that looks large enough to completely engulf one of mine. My eyes drift up, taking in the large tattoo of the Grim Reaper that covers his forearm, the intricate patterns that cover his impressive bicep and disappear under his black T-shirt before reappearing at the neckline and covering his neck, and then it’s nothing but chiseled jaw, beautiful cheekbones, and the most gorgeous set of green eyes I’ve ever seen in my life.
When I keep staring at him like an idiot, his full mouth lifts up in a slight grin before he grabs my hand and pulls me to standing like I weigh nothing, which is obviously not the case. I’m not the kind of girl who’s ever been accused of being too thin. I wonder if men have any idea how sexy it is when they can lift a woman without grunting. Of course everything about the gorgeous, tattooed man in front of me is sexy, and I’m guessing he probably knows it.
He’s still gripping my hand, and the heat of his skin threatens to burn me if I don’t put some distance between us.
“Thanks,” I say loud enough for him to hear me over the music, and then I look into those green eyes one last time before turning and walking away. My ass and pride both hurt in equal measure, and I’m not willing to stick around and humiliate myself even further. You can always go lower. If life has taught me anything, it’s that. Things can always get worse. You can always go down and very rarely get the opportunity to go up.
When I’m almost to the door that’s always shut every time I look at it, it opens, and a man steps out right as he’s saying, “Be sure and call your dad, Dominic. It’s not nice to make him worry. You know how much he hates that.”
He speaks with an accent, but it’s definitely not Italian. He turns around and sees me standing in the hall. He’s incredibly good looking but old enough to be my dad, and I’m debating on just leaving when a deep voice comes from inside the office, “Fuck off, Vitaly.”
Despite the words, there’s no anger in the tone, and the man who’s obviously Vitaly laughs, not looking even slightly fazed at just being told to fuck off. I must look scared to death, because he smiles and says, “Relax, kid. Just don’t bring up his father-in-law and you’ll be fine.”
I barely manage to whisper a quick thanks while my mind screams at me that I’m in way over my head. I need this job, but I’m pretty sure I’m standing in a hallway with one of the notorious Melnikov brothers right now. The man standing in front of me is still grinning and doesn’t look like a vicious murderer, but something tells me looks can be deceiving with this guy. He may have an easy smile, but his hands, arms, and neck are covered in tattoos, and I have a feeling his brown eyes could turn cold and hard pretty damn quickly.
“Luka,” Vitaly hollers and then says something in a language that must be Russian. The voice that answers sends a shiver down my spine, and it’s not from fear. The voice is deep and sexy, and I don’t need to understand the words to know that I’d like him to keep talking and never stop.
When I turn my head, I bite back the sigh I want to give because of course it’s the man who helped me up. For a second I think Vitaly might be his dad, but there isn’t much of a family resemblance. They’re both insanely attractive, but Luka’s eyes are more almond-shaped, his jaw a little sharper, and when I realize I’ve been caught staring at him again, I turn my head and scurry into the room, willing to face the unknown of my boss’s office instead of gawking at the gorgeous man I’ll most likely never see again.
I start to second-guess my decision as soon as both my feet are planted in front of the imposing desk and the even more intimidating man who’s sitting behind it. Dominic Alessi is not at all what I’m expecting him to be. I’d been envisioning someone older, someone who doesn’t fill out his suit quite so well, and definitely not someone who’s looking at me in an appraising sort of way, like he’s already figured out all my shortcomings and is trying to weigh them out to see if the good will outweigh the bad.
I already know the answer to that, so I keep my mouth shut, hoping his math is different from mine.
“Dario said you did good tonight.” His deep, accented voice fills the room as he motions for me to take a seat.
“I’m glad he thinks so.” I sit down and try not to look nervous.
He rubs a hand over his light beard, keeping his gaze on mine until his phone buzzes. We both look at the lit-up screen lying on his desk, and I try to hide my surprise when I see the photo that pops up. It’s a beautiful, dark-haired woman, holding a baby dressed in pink, both of them looking at whoever’s taking the photo and smiling. Dominic’s entire face changes when he sees that photo, and his voice is much softer when he answers.
“Everything okay, principessa ?”
He lets out a soft laugh at whatever she says. “I’ll never stop worrying. You should know that by now.”
I sit in silence, trying to pretend I’m not listening, but there’s no way for me to not hear what’s being said less than three feet away from me.
“I’ll be home soon, sweetheart. Tell Isabella that Daddy loves her.”
He lets out another soft laugh, and then says, “I love you too, principessa ,” before ending the call.
The silence is awkward as fuck, and I look everywhere but at him. When he finally breaks it, his voice isn’t near as soft as it was when he was speaking to his wife, and he doesn’t mention the phone call at all.
“We need a new girl to work upstairs, and Dario recommended you. He said you worked well with Gabby and didn’t fuck up any of the drinks. He also said you didn’t fidget during the game.”
The odd statement catches me off guard, and I meet his eyes without thinking. They’re still weighing me, but not quite as cold as they were when I walked in. Maybe my scales are evening out.
When he sees my confusion, he adds, “Dario hates it when people can’t sit still. When he’s up there working security, having someone in his periphery who’s constantly moving irritates him and makes him very unpleasant to be around.”
“I’ll remember that,” I tell him, but there’s no need for me to try and remember it. My default has always been to freeze. It’s all part of being invisible.
Dominic leans back in his chair, appraising me one last time before giving me a slight nod. “I think you’ll do well up there. The position is yours if you want it.”
When I open my mouth to accept, he holds up a hand to stop me. “First you need to know the rules.”
Starting with his thumb, he goes through the list. “You are never to interrupt or interfere with the game.” Adding his index finger, he says, “Anything that happens in this club, and especially in that room, is never to be repeated.” With his middle finger extended, he lightly wiggles the three digits while keeping his eyes locked on mine. “Don’t fuck the clientele.”
Dropping his hand, he gives me the barest hint of a smile. “If you can follow those three simple rules, we’ll get along just fine. You’ll keep all your tips, and you’ll still receive a paycheck from me. I also need you to be available if a game is planned last-minute, but that rarely happens.”
When I’m sure he’s finished, I say, “Sounds perfect. I’m in.”
He holds up a finger and says, “One more thing,” making my heart stutter in my chest, terrified he’s going to take back the job offer.
“I went through your file and saw your ID. It’s fake. It’s damn good, but it’s fake. Why is it fake, and do I need to be worried about it?”
I think about lying, but something in his eyes tells me that would be a very bad idea, so I tell him the truth, or at least a partial truth. “I’m only nineteen. I needed a fake ID because most clubs won’t hire you unless you’re twenty-one. It’s my real name, though. I just lied about the age.” I don’t mention that I also lied about the apartment number just as added security because my mom is paranoid about us giving out our address. She rented a P.O. Box when I was a baby, and that’s where all our mail goes. Nothing is ever sent to the apartment.
He watches me before giving a slow nod. “I think you’ve probably figured out by now that you not being twenty-one is the least of my worries, and I really don’t give a shit about it. You’re over eighteen, and that’s all I care about, so the job is yours.” He stands and offers me his hand so we can shake on it. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to be getting home.”
“Thank you, Mr. Alessi,” I quickly say before he can walk off.
“You earned it. Just keep doing what you’re doing, and if you need anything, ask Dario or his brother Alessandro. One of them will always be here when you’re working.”
I nod and thank him again as we leave his office. He heads towards the front of the club while I make a quick exit out the back, too stunned to process everything that’s happened tonight. The eight hundred dollars I earned in tips feels a bit like a dream, and I keep dipping a finger into the hidden pocket in my skirt to feel it, reminding myself that it’s real. I still have a couple of hours to kill before I can go home without making my mom suspicious, so I head to the diner that’s a few blocks away .
Emerging from the dark alley, I ignore the long line of people still waiting to get into La Dolce Vita , and weave my way through the crowded sidewalk. It’s always busy in this part of the city, no matter the time, and it takes me several minutes before I’m pushing open the door to the diner on the corner and breathing in a lungful of greasy hamburgers and fries and freshly baked apple pie. The aromas mix together, making my mouth water and my stomach growl.
Bypassing a few empty booths, I squeeze into the last stool at the counter and start looking through the menu that’s already there and waiting.
“What can I get you, hon?”
I look up and smile at the older woman who’s holding a coffeepot in one hand and a pen in the other. She refills a cup for the man I’m sitting next to and then sets it aside before grabbing her order pad.
“Can I get a bacon double cheeseburger with everything, fries, a vanilla shake, and a slice of apple pie?”
“Coming right up,” she says, jotting it down and then quickly walking away to put my order in.
The man next to me ignores me, which I’m incredibly grateful for, putting all his focus on the Reuben sandwich he’s almost done with and the pile of fries next to it. I lightly kick my feet in excitement. I haven’t eaten all day, and the idea of a proper greasy meal is making me downright giddy. When my waitress returns a few minutes later, setting a loaded plate down in front of me and then a large vanilla shake, I smile and thank her and immediately pick up my burger. It’s nice and warm, the bacon just the right amount of crispy, and as soon as I take a bite, my eyes close in appreciation. When I open them, I see two now very familiar green eyes staring at me. My cheeks go up in flames, my jaws stop their frenzied chomping, and all I can do is stare at Luka as he leans against the counter, watching me.
I’m just thinking I can’t possibly get any more embarrassed, but then the waitress is back, setting a very large slice of pie down next to my overflowing plate.
“Don’t forget your pie, hon,” she says, giving me a big smile before turning to the insanely attractive man who’s fighting a smile at the amount of food I’m in the process of inhaling. She turns to Luka. “Oh, are you together? Did you want to order?”
I chew as fast as I can, swallowing it down as I shake my head. “No, we’re not together.”
Luka raises a dark brow at me before turning his attention back to the waitress. “I called in an order for Luka a few minutes ago.” He looks back over at my feast, eyes landing on my apple pie. “Any way I could add a couple of slices of pie to it? It smells amazing.”
“Sure thing, hon,” she says, an endearment that she evidently calls everyone.
After she walks away, I pick up a fry and nibble on it, because as nervous as he’s making me and as embarrassed as I am at being caught with such a massive plate when he probably surrounds himself with women who only nibble on carrots while in public, I’m still really fucking hungry. As if on cue, my stomach gives another rumble, reminding me that one bite of that delicious burger will never be enough.
Luka hears it and gives a soft laugh. “Don’t let me stop you. Eat it while it’s hot.”
He keeps leaning against the counter, watching me. I think about taking another small bite of fry, but then give a fuck it sigh and grab the burger, taking a large bite and filling my mouth with it. I swear I see a glint of respect in his green eyes as he watches me eat.
“What’s your name?”
When I’ve swallowed my food, I say, “Lara.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Lara. I’m Luka.”
He holds his hand out to me, and I shake it, watching his large hand swallow mine again. His skin is just as scorching as I remember it, and I have to fight to not stare at the intricate tattoos covering his arm and hand.
“Nice to meet you too,” I tell him.
He releases my hand, breaking our connection when the waitress comes back with his bag of food and two drinks. He hands her a few bills, telling her to keep the change and then gives me a small smile.
“Maybe I’ll see you again sometime, Lara.”
Before I can think of anything to say, he’s walking away, leaving me to stare at his broad shoulders and what has to be a perfectly sculpted ass beneath those dark jeans.
“Is he your boyfriend?”
I turn to see the waitress staring after Luka with a look of pure appreciation on her face.
“No,” I tell her, forcing my attention back to my meal.
“That’s a shame, hon.” She shakes her head softly like she’s trying to clear it and mutters, “If I were forty years younger, I’d be all over that,” before adding in a slightly louder voice, “He did order the same thing as you. Maybe that’s a sign.”
She walks off to refill someone else’s coffee, leaving me to finish my meal with nothing but the stranger beside me and thoughts of Luka swarming my head like a bunch of angry hornets. The faster I forget about him, the better. All he’ll do is hurt me, and I’m tired of being hurt. I just want to eat my greasy meal, keep this job that pays crazy good, and use it to support my mom and me.
An invisible life, just like I want.
I take another bite of my hamburger, ignoring the fact that it doesn’t taste nearly as good anymore.