Chapter Ten
Isla
I don’t even notice how hot the water is as I watch Cara. With a deliberate sway of her hips, she moves past Walker in the space behind the bar, brushing against him with an intimacy that sends a jolt through me. She didn’t have to do that – she chose to do that. There was plenty of space for her to get through without touching him, but she seems desperate to get and keep his attention.
He catches her eye, and there's a momentary pause—a silent exchange I don’t understand before she leans in closer to him, touching his shoulder with one hand and leaning forward in a way that puts her impressive cleavage on display. Her laughter tinkles like expensive crystal, but it's the look in her eyes – bright, hungry, and a touch gleeful – that has my stomach twisting up in angry knots.
“Can't stand it, can you?” I mutter under my breath, my hands submerged in sudsy water, washing glasses on autopilot.
The cups pile up like Cara's obvious attempts to charm Walker, and I glance back over at them. Every little touch and contact between them stirs up the inexplicable rising tide of anger within me. My fingers grip a cup a little too hard, scrubbing at a non-existent stain. Why does she get under my skin? Why do I care if she's setting her sights on Walker? It’s not like he’s mine or anything – I have a boyfriend.
“Stop being stupid,” I whisper, upset at myself for the unwanted jealousy that keeps lancing through my chest and belly. It's ridiculous. Walker's just my boss. It doesn’t matter that he’s a bad boy with too much power and not enough smiles, except when Cara’s around.
I grumble under my breath, glancing at the cups that should be being washed by those delicate hands of hers—hands that have done nothing but touch Walker or accentuate her own body, or trying to seduce all day, while I'm stuck here cleaning up after her.
“Guess I'm her maid now, too.” I release a pent-up breath as I rinse another cup and line it up to dry. The unfairness of all of it gnaws at me. More work for me, more time Liam has to cover the floor because I'm tied up here, and the rest of the team picking up slack that isn’t theirs to pick up. All because Cara's too busy trying to trap Walker, who seems oblivious to the imbalance she's causing.
I try to shake off the frustration. I need to keep my head down and do the job, not get caught up in whatever game Cara is playing, or drama, or petty behaviors. But even as I try, my eyes betray me, flicking back to Walker, to the curve of Cara's back as she laughs at something he says softly too close to her ear. The way her hand lingers just a second too long on his arm.
“Damn it,” I say, the heat from the water nothing compared to the sting simmering under my skin. It's not my place to feel this way. I have to remember that. I just work here, I’m just trying to finish school, get my degree, and get through what life throws at me. I don’t have the luxury of distractions—especially not ones wrapped in tight dresses and flirtatious smiles.
I plunge my hands back into the soapy abyss, determined to scrub away the unwelcome feelings along with the remnants of lipstick-stained glasses. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to wash away the image of Cara clinging to Walker like she belongs on his arm and at his side.
“Stay out of it.” I remind myself. “It's none of my business.” But as I glance once more at the pair, my resolve wavers, and I realize with a sinking feeling that I might already be in too deep.
The suds build up around my wrists as I scrub with a vigor that would make my grandmother proud. From the corner of my eye, I catch Walker leaning against the bar, his arms crossed, a picture of nonchalant power. Cara is there, too, her body language all curves and whispers, and I can't shake the sense that she's trying to get something out of him.
“Need a hand?” The voice startles me, a jolt of adrenaline spiking through my veins before I register who it belongs to.
I glance over, almost sloshing water onto the floor, to find Vice standing a few feet away, an unreadable expression on his face. Heat floods my cheeks, not from the steam rising off the sink but from being caught watching Cara and Walker. “No, thanks, I've got this.” I attempt a smile that probably looks more like a scowl.
“Are you sure?” Vice cocks an eyebrow, and I can tell he knows exactly what I was doing.
“Positive.” My voice is firmer now, a little cold, even to my own ears. I need to get a grip; getting flustered over a man who isn’t my boyfriend isn't like me. I don’t know why I feel drawn to Walker, but I need to nip it in the bud, now.
Vice shrugs, seemingly collected, and shifts his gaze back to Walker. “He's a good guy, under it all,” he says casually, as if we're discussing the weather.
“Don't let him hear you say that,” I say in a teasing voice, returning my focus to the dishes.
To my surprise, Vice chuckles—a deep, genuine sound that resonates in the space between us. “You're right, he'd be offended.”
“So, what's your angle?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at him in suspicion. Why is Vice, Walker's notorious right-hand man, suddenly playing confidant?
“No angle.” He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Just an observation. You know, most people don't get him.”
“Maybe they don't want to.” The words slip out before I can stop them. But it's true; Walker's reputation precedes him, and it's easier to keep your head down than try to understand the quick-to-anger boss who could make or break you with a single word.
“Perhaps. Or maybe he doesn’t want them to.” Vice's gaze lingers on me for a second longer before he steps back. “I'll be around if you need me.”
“Thanks,” I say, although I'm not sure what I'm thanking him for. Then again, the offer of help is more than Cara offers, and she actually works here. As I watch him walk away, his confidence clear in every step, I turn back to the sink, my thoughts a tangled mess.
Why am I getting involved? Why does it matter if Walker's a good guy or not? And why does Cara's obvious attempt to get in Walker’s good graces bother me so much? I shake my head, dismissing the questions. They're distractions, and I can't afford those—not when I have glasses to clean and a life to put together, piece by piece. Even though my grades are all A’s now, I can’t afford to slip up or get sidetracked.
I can’t help but steal a glance toward the bar, where Walker's easy smile sends a jolt of unease through me. The curve of his lips, usually so stoic and unreadable, now plays along with Cara's playfulness. My stomach winds up so tight I can feel my lunch backing up my throat like I’m going to be sick. He's fascinated by her, I can tell—even from this distance, even with the light noises of the opening crew getting things ready to open the doors.
I try to ignore them, scrubbing harder at a stubborn lipstick stain. It's been one day—just a single shift—and here she is, burrowing her way into our work lives and relationships like she's always been part of them. Vice, who's usually impassive as stone, watches her with a curiosity that borders on amusement. Liam, ever the stoic bartender, sneaks glances between preparing for opening time. And the bouncers, they're no better; their gazes linger too long, betraying their fascination.
A sudden movement catches my eye—Walker's eyes lock onto mine across the crowded space. There's something there, a flicker of... what? Recognition? Concern? I can't decode it before Vice leans in, saying something to Cara that makes her throw back her head and laugh. The sound cuts through the low volume of the room, drawing the attention of every man in the vicinity.
The glass in my hand slips, the soapy surface like cooking oil in my grip. It clangs against the stainless steel basin, ringing out a loud, accusing gunshot-volume sound that makes me flinch. Heat floods my cheeks as I realize all eyes have turned to me. My chest constricts, and I want to vanish, to melt into the shadows where I can die and never been seen again, alone.
“Is everything okay over there?” Walker's voice meets my ears, and I peek at him. His gaze is unwavering, locked on me, even as Cara tries to snag his attention.
“It’s fine,” I say in a strangled voice. “It just slipped.” I force a laugh, but it's brittle. I need to regain control of myself and not let this... situation rule me.
“Careful,” he says with a hint of amusement, “those glasses are more fragile than they look.”
“Same,” I say under my breath, praying no one heard me as the conversations begin to start back up.
But a moment later, Walker’s voice is low and he’s beside me. “Let me help,” he says, but I wave him off. I don’t want to risk him noticing how much I'm affected by him, how unlike Cara I am—I’m not charming, flirtatious, or the center of everyone's universe for a day or forever.
“I can wash dishes,” I say, straightening up and checking the glass for any cracks or imperfections. Thankfully, it’s fine and I flash him a quick smile, hoping it looks more convincing than it feels. I don't need his help, or for him to rescue me.
I turn back to the sink, my hands working mechanically. But inside, my thoughts are a mess, each one going back to the image of Walker's smile, the sound of Cara's laughter, the look in Vice's eyes.
My fingers are wrinkled, but I can’t – won’t – quit now. The suds are frothy as I wash each glass to perfection. It's not until there's nothing left to clean that I allow myself to steal another glance across the room.
Walker shifted his stance, and Cara is practically draped over him, her laughter soft and sultry, throaty in a way that probably has every man’s attention. But there's something in the way Walker stands – his body turned ever so slightly away from her, shoulders squared with a casual disinterest – that whispers indifference. The tiny flicker of hope inside me fans into a flame, then I wonder why I care. They can have each other. I have Chase. And I don’t have to compete for his love and affection, or worry about him being tempted by a prettier woman.
I dry my hands on a towel before tossing it into the wash bin. With measured steps, I close the distance between myself and the little group, watching as Cara’s eyes narrow just a fraction at my approach. Her lip curls, a silent expression of disgust meant for me alone, and I suppress the urge to respond in kind.
“Done with the dishes at long last?” Walker asks.
I nod.
“Good, good,” Walker says, his gaze locking on me, warm and unsettlingly intimate. Cara's head snaps up, her eyes wide with an emotion that might be surprise, or perhaps irritation; it's hard to tell.
“I wanted to discuss your ideas for this place.” Walker gestures at the room, commanding my full attention… probably without trying. “Cara, would you mind giving us a moment?”
The words roll off his tongue with such smoothness that for a second, we're frozen by it. Cara looks confused and unwilling to move. She scans Walker's face, searching for a sign that he's joking or a weakness she can jump on to stay right here. But Walker only offers her a polite nod, and the finality of it leaves Cara tense.
“Thank you,” he adds, in a tone that reminds everyone he’s the boss.
With a huff of pure frustration, Cara walks away, her departure marked by the exaggerated sway of her hips. For a brief second, my eyes follow the hypnotic motion, drawn out of curiosity and appreciation despite myself.
“Your ideas were interesting.” Walker waits to speak until Cara's out of earshot, drawing my attention back to him. His proximity sends a jolt through me, a crackle that seems to leap from my skin to his. Every nerve ending sings with awareness, and I'm reminded why this man, with his mix of danger and appeal, can unsettle me so thoroughly.
“Really?” I can’t imagine he plans to use any of them. But as my pulse thrums with a mix of anxiety and excitement, I keep quiet about the fact that I didn't think he’d take them seriously.
“Never underestimate your own potential,” he says, his tone spiked with something that sounds like respect. I'm not sure how to respond. My mind is reeling from the unexpected praise and the even more unexpected dismissal of Cara.
Walker's eyes hold a flicker of genuine warmth and enthusiasm that his expression doesn’t betray as he leans in slightly, bridging the gap between us with his presence. “A good friend of mine who runs a club talked to me about your ideas,” he says, his voice low and unexpectedly friendly. “He loves all of them and has even asked if he can implement a few at his place. He’s three cities over, so no worries about competition.”
Surprise grips me, and I feel my brows rise in disbelief. My heart hammers, not only from the closeness of Walker but also from the shock of his words. “Of course he can.” The words slip out of my mouth, a reflexive response to what seems like a question that’s not one I can refuse. Why would he need my permission? I watch as the corners of Walker’s lips press back into something that I wouldn’t quite call a smile, but the expression warms his features and softens the hard lines of his face.
With a smooth motion, Walker pulls a small slip of paper from the depths of his tailored suit pocket. The action is fluid, almost practiced, as if he's done this a million times before. My fingers tremble slightly as I accept the paper from him, unfolding it to reveal a receipt. A series of numbers catch my eye, and my mind goes blank for a moment, unable to process what’s happening right now.
“What is this?” I ask, lifting my gaze to meet his, feeling utterly confused.
Walker’s expression shifts into something that resembles a smile even more, a rare sight that sends an unfamiliar warmth shooting through my belly and chest. “Your ideas are good, and you deserve to be compensated for your time and efforts.” His voice carries a note of certainty, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world, and I'm the last to know.
I stare down at the paper again, reality slowly dawning on me. The numbers represent money—a full year of what I typically earn, deposited into my bank account using my direct deposit information. “This is too much,” I say, the words barely above a whisper, my throat constricting with a mix of appreciation and discomfort.
But Walker doesn't give me the opportunity to refuse. He shakes his head, dismissing my protest. “I gave you the current going rate for someone who offers comparable services.” I can hear in his voice that he's used to having his generosity accepted without question.
My mind races, searching for a way to explain my hesitation, to convey that this isn't how things are done—not in my world. But the sheer enormity of this gesture leaves me speechless, my usual quick wit lost in his unexpected kindness.
The realization that I now have a substantial safety net in my account is overwhelming, terrifying, and thrilling. Looking into Walker's piercing eyes, I understand that refusing him might be just as risky as accepting the monitory show of appreciation.
My breath hitches. “You didn’t have to pay me,” I say, still struggling with the words to make this right.
He nods. “I didn’t. Alex did. My plans to repay you are currently being drafted.”
Alex. The man with the kind eyes I’d served at the bar. He’d seemed so unassuming, besides knowing Walker, of course. I clutch the slip of paper like a lifeline, my hand trembling. Walker watches me, his gaze expectant, the intensity of those eyes warning me there’s no other option but to accept this payment.
“Go ahead and answer that,” he says, nodding toward my phone buzzing in my pocket with a persistence that can't be ignored.
“Thank you – it might be important,” I say, needing a moment to organize my thoughts and find a loophole that will allow me to politely refuse. My fingers tremble as I pull the device from my pocket, unlocking it to reveal a flood of messages from Amber.
With a tap, the screen fills with a video—a window into a scene I'm not prepared for. The bass thumps in the background, the strobe lights flash, and there he is. My boyfriend. Or the man I thought was my boyfriend. His arm is draped casually around another woman, her laughter bringing a smile to his face through the noise of the party. My stomach clenches, bile rising in my throat as I watch him lean closer, their lips meeting in a kiss, in a betrayal so complete it feels like a physical blow.
The kiss deepens, passion and desire exploding in a way he's never kissed me before. And the way she responds, eagerly, hungrily, sends a lance of pain straight through my heart. They've forgotten the rest of the world exists because they’re lost in each other, and then they part.
Without a second to waste, he’s guiding her away with a hand possessively at the small of her back. A bedroom door closes behind them, leaving nothing but pain chewing away at my insides like I’ve swallowed acid.
There’s nothing I can say or do, I just stand, stunned, my future crumbling down around me. I hear myself telling Amber I’d marry him someday, and the memory tastes sour. I feel so stupid.
A single tear slides down my cheek as my heart breaks like a bowling ball under the force of a hydraulic press.
Walker's hands are steady and warm as he reaches out, brushing the tear away with a tenderness that catches me off guard. “What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice low and full of concern.
I can barely speak, the hurt wrapping around my throat like a vice. “It's...nothing.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue as my eyes dart away, unable to meet his probing gaze. With my luck and his ability to read people, he’ll know what happened the second I meet his glance.
“This doesn't look like nothing,” he says gently, his touch lingering against my skin, stirring something inside me that has no right to be here right now.
The video loops, playing the scene over again, a cruel reminder of the love I thought I had. I need to go, need to deal with this so I can regain some sense of control over my life. Chase has some things to answer for, and I’m not about to let him keep making a fool of me. I’ve been loyal to him, and I’d never cheat. I lower my head, feeling exposed and raw.
“Hey,” Walker says, tilting my chin up to face him. “Whatever you’re dealing with, if I can help, I will.”
His words, meant to comfort me, only confuse me further. Here stands a man whose reputation precedes him—a man who talks with his fists, fires people for insulting him, and is an ex-gang member who has likely seen much worse than a girl whose boyfriend cheated on her—offering me solace. And yet, despite our differences, I feel a connection to him, an undeniable pull that's unexpected and unwelcome right now.
“Thank you, Walker,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel on my feet right now. “But I just need...I don’t know. I need to think.”
“Take all the time you need.” His hand retreats but leaves a trail of warmth that lingers on my skin, helping soothe away a little bit of the hurt in a way I'm not sure I'm ready to explore.
“About the money...” I say, but he holds up a hand to stop me.
“We can talk about that later.” I can see the worry in his eyes. “Right now, you should focus on yourself.”
I nod. “I think I’m going to need some time off.”
“I’ll cover you. Go take care of things.”
As he steps away, giving me space yet remaining close enough to offer support, I realize that maybe, just maybe, Walker isn't the bad boy everyone makes him out to be. Maybe, underneath the billionaire bravado, there's a heart capable of kindness—a heart that could understand the tangled mess of mine.