Black Berries & Molasses
Chapter one
Eslin
One month ago in Las Vegas
A pack of young socialites teeters past, all long legs and designer smiles, clearly on the prowl for a high-roller to take home.
I slip onto a barstool at Ink—the hottest, most exclusive hotel to hit the Vegas Strip.
Where the lighting is low, the drinks cost more than rent, and no one here is trying to play it subtle.
I’m usually not the type to approach a man. Or make the first move.
But I’ve decided while I’m in Vegas, I’m going to be bold. Brave.
Because if there’s ever a place to rewrite the rules—the very rules I’ve spent a lifetime living meticulously by, the ones that kept me steady, safe, and striving just to make it to the life of my dreams…It’s here.
I take a seat at the far end of the bar, where there’s a guy nursing a drink like it’s whispering every secret it knows. He’s got that look—somewhere between lost puppy and down right lost. Or maybe it’s something else entirely. Whatever it is, I’m curious.
“So, you get ditched by your friends too?”
The club hums with the kind of low thrum that’s more seduction than sound. Velvet booths. Gold lighting that makes the crowd gleam like they belong on a magazine cover. You don’t just wander into this place. You either know someone or are someone.
And this man looks like he checks both boxes.
He glances up, eyes catching mine. There’s a flicker of recognition there, but I’m certain we’ve never met.
“I’d normally be here with my daughter,” he says, voice low and rough. He pauses, gives a quick glance around, then lets out a sigh. “But...she’s no longer here.”
My hand flies to my mouth. Before I can think, my other hand lands gently on his wrist. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry for your loss.”
He barks out a laugh—deep, rich, and so unexpected I jerk back a little.
“Oh goodness, no. She’s not dead. She abandoned me for some bachelorette party madness or whatever she’s got going on tonight.”
Relief floods me, warm and fast, and before I can stop it, a laugh bubbles out. “Thank God for that. So, you’re here for a wedding?”
He leans back in his chair, lazy and controlled. One strong arm drapes over the back of the barstool, the other cradling his glass with an ease that’s far too practiced.
“Begrudgingly,” he says, voice like smooth whiskey. “Emotional support puppy duties. I don’t really do weddings, but it’s the daughter of a family friend and my daughter refused to come unless I did.” He lifts one shoulder. “So, here I am.”
The therapist in me perks right up, curiosity sharpening. “Why don’t you do weddings?”
He holds my gaze, eyes dark and unreadable, the air between us suddenly thicker. He studies me for a long, weighted beat, like he’s peeling back a layer to see if I’m safe. And then—slow as sin—a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“Because I haven’t been to one since my wife died. Over twenty years ago.”
Honesty. I can get into it.
I tilt my head, my expression intentionally unreadable. “The nerve of her. Up and dying on you like that.”
My humor has always skewed a little dark—blame the New York City foster care system. Or maybe it’s just baked into my DNA. I’ve never fully decided where I land on the whole nature versus nurture debate.
He chuckles and my chest does an odd little flutter. Go figure—he’s a weirdo like me.
“Yeah,” he says with a crooked smile. “Some nerve. Who the hell does she think she is?”
I arch a brow, matching his tone. “Well, lucky for you, there are about a thousand psychics on this strip. Want to go channel her? Ask what the hell she was thinking? Get some closure once and for all.”
He grins, lazy and playful. Then he shrugs. “Already did. Apparently the angel Gabriel’s hotter than me.”
That earns a smile from me. And before I can help myself, I really look at him.
He’s got a maddening kind of confidence that doesn’t need announcing. It’s just there. Unapologetic. The silver threading through his thick, slightly unruly hair isn’t a surrender to age; it’s a statement. One that says earned every damn strand.
His face is all sharp edges and sun-warmed skin—the sort of ruggedness that speaks more of afternoons spent under the sky than boardrooms or camera flashes. A beard, perfectly unkempt with salt and pepper roughness, lines his jaw. It makes my fingers itch.
But it’s his eyes that really undo me. Deep blue to contrast his dark hair but steady and knowing, with just the faintest glint of amusement. They hold mine a beat too long and his gaze is one of those that sees through your first three layers without breaking a sweat.
Still...there’s something about him. Maybe it’s everything about him. All of it completely, dangerously enticing.
And—given the kind of experience I’m sure he has on me—without a doubt, a very bad idea.
I finish the remnants of the drink in my glass before slamming it back down on the bartop. “I haven’t seen this angel Gabriel, so, I’ll just take your ghosts’ word for it.”
He cocks a brow, eyes twinkling. “As in…” He’s absolutely fishing for a compliment.
I roll my eyes, but the smile’s already tugging at my lips. “As in, you’re definitely sexy.”
He grins, cocky and pleased. “You have to say that.”
“Oh yeah?” He’s baiting me into more conversation and because of those eyes and that smile, I bite. “And why’s that?”
“Because I’m the devilishly handsome older guy who’s about to ask the woman way out of my league if I can buy her a drink.”
I tilt my head. “Am I said woman in this scenario?”
“Yes.” He deadpans. “Try to keep up.” Then, with that same playful straight face, he adds, “And since you’re going to inevitably turn me down, you would’ve done me the simple kindness of calling me sexy. Your good deed for the day.”
“I won’t turn you down,” I say quickly, eyes locked on his, voice just a little lower. Breathier.
He doesn’t break eye contact. Just offers his hand, palm up. “Grant.”
I slide mine into his. “Eslin.”
“Besides, Eslin,” he says with a wicked grin, still holding onto my hand. “You’d totally make my ghost jealous.”
Do Black girls turn red when they blush? Because my goodness, my face is on fire.
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” I manage, grinning while regretfully pulling my hand away to brush back a piece of non-existent stray hair.
“That you’re so hot you’d make my dead wife jealous?”
I throw my head back and howl. “Did you really just say that?”
He shrugs, all casual. “Does it bother you that I’m weird? A little dark?”
I shake my head, eyes dancing. “You actually just got ten times sexier.”
He beams. “Hey, Eslin?”
“Yeah?”
“Want to go for a walk?”
I smile, slow and sure. “I’d love to.”