Chapter 20 Isla
TWENTY
ISLA
The lazy, hypnotic music at Luxe has a way of getting under my skin. Usually, it slips in through the soles of my shoes, climbs the base of my spine, and settles somewhere near the place where my ribs meet my breath.
It teaches my body to do what it’s been trained to do, even when my mind is somewhere else. Tonight, there’s no chance of losing myself in it.
The grant email is still sitting in my drafts folder with three versions of the same sentence because I can’t decide which one sounds least desperate.
The contractor estimates need requesting again, too, because apparently, everyone hears historic orchard and assumes I’ve got a secret vault of money buried under Elias’ tree.
There’s a stack of unopened mail sitting in the kitchen at home, the same kitchen where Jack scrambled eggs for me this morning. Where we ate in that strange, giddy quiet and I had to keep tamping down the excitement before it got ahead of me.
Nothing is real until it’s signed and sealed.
So, I move through the shift on muscle memory and stubbornness. I smile when I’m supposed to. I keep my chin high when the wrong men look too long. I take the tips I earn because I’ve earned them.
The lights in here are soft by design. They blur the edges. They make everything look kinder than it is. They let people pretend their lives are neat and finished and that they came here only for a good time.
I don’t have that luxury.
Growing up on land that can fail taught me how quickly the ground can shift beneath me. I learned that if something is holding, it’s only because I’m there—watching it, fixing it, staying ahead of the damage.
That’s what this job has been for me, too. A way to stay ahead.
But if everything breaks right, my time at Luxe may be coming to a natural, uncomplicated end. Two weeks’ notice is customary. Expected, even in a job like this.
I dance the last part of the set with a smile that finally stops feeling forced, letting the music roll through me while I move, hips loose, skin slick with heat. Sweat clings to the hollow of my throat, between my breasts, the backs of my knees.
When I leave the stage, I grab my robe from the hook, slide my arms into it, and tie it tight. I should sit down now. Drink some water and count my cash while I let my pulse settle. That’s what I usually do after a set.
Instead, I go looking for Maris, the floor manager.
She’s at the end of the bar with her tablet out, jaw tight with concentration, hair scraped back in a severe knot. She glances up when she sees me. “Isla,” she says. “You good?”
“Yeah, Mare. I’ve been good for so long that the word has started to feel meaningless. Can I talk to you about something?”
Her brows lift. “What is it?”
“Work.”
“Yeah. Come on.” She jerks her chin toward the narrow hallway beside the office door.
Back here, it’s cramped and unglamorous. There’s no pulsing music or forgiving purple light. It always jars me a little, stepping into the parts of this place that aren’t built to seduce anyone.
Maris leans one shoulder against the wall. “What’s up?”
My hands are damp inside the sleeves of my robe. I rub my thumb over the seam at my wrist. “I’m giving my official notice.”
Maris blinks once. “Notice.”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
Maris isn’t the kind of manager who wants your feelings. She wants your timeline and whether she can count on you. I respect that.
“Two weeks.”
She briefly studies my face. “Something happen?”
“No.”
Denial is easier than explaining that something did happen, only it happened in pieces. It happened in a hundred small moments, stacked one on top of another until the weight of them got too hard to ignore.
Maris waits.
I swallow. “I’m leaving because I can, and because I need to focus on the orchard.”
“All right,” she says, tapping the edge of her tablet. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
She lets out a breath and pushes off the wall. “Okay. Two weeks. I’ll adjust the schedule. In the meantime, could you stay on a little extra tonight? Simone is out for her VIP set.”
I frown. “Did something happen to her?”
“Family thing,” she says, and that’s all she gives me.
“Yeah, of course I can cover.”
“You’re a great dancer. If you ever need anything, you call me.”
My throat tightens. “Thanks, Mare. I’ll miss the girls here.”
She steps past me and heads back toward the bar. Conversation over. No ceremony or drawn-out goodbye. I’m thankful for that.
I stay there for a second and let the reality settle.
In two weeks, Luxe won’t be my fail-safe anymore. The grant will be. And if that fails, Jack will be. I’ve arranged it all carefully enough that I won’t have to come crawling back here if the funding stalls.
Even with the plan in place, it still feels a little like stepping off a dock and waiting to see how cold the water will be.
Once I’m changed into my serving dress, Roland finds me before I can disappear back into the rhythm of the room. Of course he does. He always seems to know where I am before I see him coming.
“Starla,” he says. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
“You didn’t want to wait for me in your usual booth?”
“Didn’t have time.” He gestures toward a man at the bar who’s laughing too loudly at his own jokes. “Quick one. What’s he drinking tonight?”
“Bourbon. Neat,” I say. “He’s on his third.”
Roland nods once, like that confirms something for him. “Thought so.”
I wait because he never asks only one question.
“How’s your farm?” he adds, mild.
“Orchard, remember?” I correct. “It’s holding for now.”
There’s no use giving him details. One, because he doesn’t actually care. Two, because I don’t hand out pieces of Mirabelle to men who treat people like puzzles.
“Sure,” he says easily. “It’s a big place, right? What is it, about three hundred and thirty trees?”
I blink once. “It’s . . . a lot. Though I don’t remember telling you that specific number.”
“Didn’t you? Hm. Maybe I read about it online.”
“Online?”
That’s strange. I was under the impression there weren’t published articles outside of Blue Willow’s local paper and town website. Why would there be?
“Curiosity rabbit hole. There’s a surprising amount out there, you know?” he says, pleasant. “People love a legacy.”
He heads for booth ten. I don’t have much time to sit with the way my instincts bristle because when I turn back toward the floor, I find Jack posted by the wall under the lights.
My eyes go wide. Heat rushes through me in one humiliating wave, every inch of me suddenly gone hyperaware.
Jack Rhodes does not belong in Luxe. Not while I’m working here, anyway. Not under violet light that cuts his jaw into something sharper, nor surrounded by men who’ve ogled every last inch of me.
He’s dressed casually, black shirt stretched across his chest, chinos and dress shoes to match. His hands are shoved into his pockets like that’s enough to make him blend in with his surroundings.
It certainly is not.
When I finally catch his eye, his gaze meets mine and holds.
I force my feet to move, rearranging my face into the right expression. Neutral, professional, and entirely unbothered by my fake husband’s completely unreasonable presence.
I cross the floor with my chin high and my pulse sprinting, stop right in front of him, and keep my voice low when I ask, “What the hell are you doing here?”
He looks me over once, painstakingly slow. He’s cataloguing the dress and the tights and the slick shine of my skin under these lights. It makes me furious.
It also makes my stomach flip.
“I came here to pick you up,” he says, calm and casual. “For drinks.”
My eyes narrow. “You came here to pick me up. Here.”
“You said we could meet after your shift,” he replies. “I drove all the way out here. And when you didn’t show up, I figured I had two options. Come in and check on you, or leave without getting to see you at all.”
“I thought I texted you. Told you to forget about it.”
“No, you did not.”
I blink. My hand goes to the side of my dress, where my phone sits clipped into the hidden pouch. I pull it out and tap the screen with my thumb.
No outgoing text.
My face heats with irritation at myself because this is exactly what happens when my brain latches onto one thing and decides it can outrun time.
“I got busy,” I say stiffly.
He makes a small sound in his throat that could pass for sympathy if he felt like being generous. “It’s nearly one,” he says. “You told me midnight.”
“I know what I told you.”
“And I know what the clock said. So here I am.”
I lean in a fraction. “Go back to your truck.”
His brows lift. “Excuse me?”
“Go back and wait for me in your truck,” I repeat through my teeth. “I’ve got one more set tonight. I do not need you watching me work.”
His gaze drops briefly. To my legs. Then back to my face. Something in his expression shifts. Like he’s caught a scent and is deciding whether to follow it.
Please, please be normal.
He tips his chin. “What if I stayed?”
I stare at him for a beat, weighing every possible way this could go sideways. “This isn’t funny,” I say quietly. “My work here isn’t a joke.”
“I didn’t say it was. I said I could stay. And I know how to follow your rules now. I’ve been practicing. I can be a good boy.”
I glare at him. “Can you?”
“Tonight, I will be. Tonight, I’ll be extremely well-behaved.”
I glance over his shoulder. Maris is watching us from the bar with careful curiosity. Two tables back, Roland has shifted slightly in his booth.
Great.
I straighten, shoulders rolling back into place. Professional spine. Performance posture. If this is happening, it’s happening on my terms.
“Fine,” I say. “You can stay.”
His brows lift, pleased. “Yeah?”
“Yes. But you’re going to sit in booth six and keep your mouth shut. Over there.”
I point to the small corner booth tucked beside the mirrored column, half in shadow and out of the main flow. If he stays there, then maybe I can get through this without combusting.
“You’re going to keep your thoughts and opinions to yourself,” I continue. “You’re going to order one dirty soda. You’re going to tip well. And when I’m done, we are leaving. We’re getting cocktails somewhere normal, and then we’re going home.”
“And then?”
“And then we are never speaking about this night again.”
Something hot and amused flashes across his face. “Yes, ma’am.”
“We’ve been over this. Don’t call me that.”
His mouth curves. “Noted.”
I step back and gesture sharply toward the table. “Sit.”
He does.
I turn away before he can say anything else. Before my resolve wobbles and my body remembers that he’s technically my husband and that this room is built to make people forget themselves.
As I step back onto the floor, the music swells. The lights go soft. My pulse falls back into rhythm. This is fine because I’m in control here. I can get through one more set without looking at him. I do it all the time with rooms full of strangers.
Jack has already seen me naked, anyway. He’s already touched me. He’s already kissed me. This is only dancing.
If he wants to watch, he can watch.