Chapter 6 Jace
JACE
When I glanced up, I found myself staring into a pair of wide, panic-stricken eyes. The woman’s cheeks were flushed so scarlet, you’d think she was coming down with a life-threatening fever.
“Put laxatives in his coffee?” I read aloud, cocking an eyebrow and fighting to keep a straight face. “Remind me never to accept a drink from you.”
She thrust out a delicate hand, chin tilted defiantly despite her obvious mortification. “That’s private. Can I have it back, please?”
I couldn’t help but grin, holding the napkin just out of her reach. “Who’s the unlucky guy?”
She lunged for the napkin, but I was faster. And taller and not at all ready to let this go because this was one of the most amusing things I’d come across in, well, ever.
“It’s just a joke,” she insisted, her voice pitched higher than before, her gaze darting between me and something behind me.
“Shove ice picks into his balls,” I read dramatically, watching her wince. “Damn. What’d this guy do? Kick a kitten?”
“It was just a … creative writing exercise,” she mumbled.
“Are you an author?”
“Of that napkin, yes. Now give it back,” she retorted, a spark of sass breaking through her embarrassment.
Her eyes darted behind me again. Was the target of her wrath here? That could get interesting.
“You shouldn’t glue his office chair wheels,” I advised. “Unscrew them instead. When he sits down, he’ll go flying. Much more satisfying.”
Her mouth twitched. “Are you … critiquing my revenge fantasies?”
“Someone has to maintain quality standards in the vengeance industry.”
She stared at me, mouth slightly agape. Then—God help me—she smiled. The kind of smile that could power Chicago for a week. But she dropped it immediately, as if reminding herself there was nothing funny about this situation at all.
I disagree.
“I’ve never seen someone use a pen like a weapon of mass destruction,” I said, finally extending the napkin.
As she reached for it, I couldn’t help but notice her elegant hands with fierce red nails that suggested she wasn’t always the type to plot revenge on bar napkins, but rather, the feminine, alluring type.
The moment her fingers brushed mine, something like fire crackled through my veins.
“It’s a work of art. You should frame it. ”
“Right,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Watching her bite her lower lip was doing dangerous things to my self-control. “Well, uh, thank you. I promise I’m not actually a violent person.”
I couldn’t help but lean closer, drawn in by her nervous energy and that hint of vanilla perfume.
“You know, most people just fantasize about getting revenge. But you? You’ve got style. Terrifying, possibly criminal style, but style nonetheless.” I winked, enjoying the way a fresh pool of crimson burst beneath her cheeks.
Behind us, someone cleared their throat loudly. Right. We were still blocking the entrance. The Friday night crowd was building, and judging by the grumbling, they weren’t thrilled about our impromptu conversation near the doorway.
“Right, well, uh, nice meeting you,” she stammered, fidgeting with the napkin.
“Jace,” I said, extending my hand.
“Scarlett.”
What a gorgeous name for a stunning woman.
Her hand fit into mine like it was made to be there. I reluctantly let go, already missing the warmth of her fingers against mine.
Focus, Lockwood.
“Scarlett, I’d like to buy you a drink,” I announced.
With her eyebrows shooting up, she looked surprised. And based on the softening of her lips, amused.
“You said that as a statement.”
“Too bold?”
She smirked, and her tone was a shade of feisty I wanted to hear more of. “The fact that you said that as a statement tells me a lot about you.”
A couple squeezed past us, muttering under their breath. She shifted closer to make room, and suddenly, the air between us felt charged.
“Oh?” I challenged, trying not to get caught staring at her mouth, but my God, look at those lips.
“Most men I’ve met would have framed the invitation as a question,” she continued.
“I’m not like most men. What kind of drink do you like?”
“But you said it as a fact,” she pressed, studying me with those sharp eyes. “Which tells me you’re used to getting what you want.”
I leaned in. “And right now, what I want is to buy you a drink.” So I can learn everything about you.
“Actually,” she amended, “I’d argue most men, after seeing that list, would be running by now.”
“Most men are boring.”
“How do you know I’m not some psycho, making that list about things I want to do to my ex?”
I leaned in, closer still. “My intuition says whoever made it onto that list deserved every word.”
“Your intuition could be terrible.”
“My intuition is currently telling me you’re stalling because you find me intriguing.”
She bit her lip, fighting a smile. “Your intuition is awfully full of itself.”
“My intuition would also like to point out that we’re still blocking the door, and”—I nodded at the growing crowd trying to squeeze past us—“we can find a quiet corner, where you can tell me all about this list of yours.”
“And if I’m actually dangerous?”
I grinned. “Then this is going to be the most interesting drink I’ve ever bought.”
Her soft chuckle was worth every second of waiting. “You’re either very brave or very foolish.”
“I prefer optimistically reckless. Now, about that drink …”
Her eyes traveled to a woman emerging from the restroom, and when they met mine again, I could see something processing in her facial expression. Pretty sure she was debating taking me up on my offer, but after a few seconds, she flashed a smile that looked disappointed.
“Sorry. I’m here with a friend. It was … nice meeting you, Jace.”
After clearing her throat, she graced me with one final look before ambling away. My feet stayed frozen in place, my eyes glued to her delicate frame as she tore up the napkin and tossed its confetti-like pieces into the trash like evidence from a crime scene.
Which was when it struck me: For the first time in an eternity, work wasn’t consuming my thoughts.
My mind wasn’t racing through acquisition strategies or market projections.
It was entirely captivated by her. The smart play, the Lockwood business instinct that rarely steered me wrong, would be to let her walk away.
My life was already overflowing with complications, deadlines, and responsibilities.
Adding a beautiful, intriguing stranger with a flair for creative revenge to that mix was the definition of a poor risk assessment.
But as I watched her weave through the crowd, something inside me shifted.
Call it insanity, call it a desperate measure to avoid sabotaging this work deal by chasing this distraction, call it the worst decision of my life, but I knew with absolute certainty that if I let her walk away without finding a way to see her again, I’d regret it.