Chapter 8
LILA
T he lecture hall empties like a sinking ship—everyone fleeing Professor Miller's three-hour seminar on media ethics that felt more like media medieval torture. I rub my eyes, still seeing blue slides burned into my retinas.
"I swear, if I hear the phrase 'journalistic integrity' one more time today, I'm going to throw myself into the Hudson." I stuff my laptop into my bag, nearly crushing my notebook in the process.
Tessa snorts beside me, somehow looking freshly pressed despite sitting through the same grueling class. "At least he didn't do his weird Nixon impression again."
"Small mercies." I follow her into the hallway, weaving through clusters of students. "So what's your plan? You applying to Pulse?"
"God, no." Tessa flips her perfect hair over her shoulder. "I'm aiming for Catalyst. Their investigative team actually wins awards that don't come from cereal boxes."
"Aren't they the ones who only take like two interns a year?"
"Three, actually. And I've already networked with their senior editor at that charity gala my parents dragged me to." She shoots me a sympathetic glance. "What about you? Still thinking Tribune?"
"I was, but now I'm leaning toward Veritas." I fiddle with my ear cuff. "They actually pay their interns, which is revolutionary in this industry apparently."
"No shit? How much?"
"Enough that I could quit slinging drinks to drunk NYU losers who think tipping means slipping me their phone number with a winky face."
We push through the double doors into the October air.
"Seriously, Lila. You should do it. The Old Haunt is a cesspit."
"My old place was worse. This isn't so bad.
I need to pay my undergraduate loans," I counter automatically, though I'm building more debt getting the masters degree.
"But yeah, after that incident with the frat boys.
.." I trail off, not wanting to revisit that night, and all it unleashed.
"I'm ready for a change. Something where I don't have to smile while some finance wannabe mansplains bourbon to me. "
Tessa links her arm through mine. "I can already see your byline: 'Lila Marks, award-winning journalist and woman who no longer smells perpetually of beer nuts.'"
"The dream." I laugh, but there's an edge to it. "Though with three hundred other students applying, my chances feel somewhere between winning the lottery and dating someone who actually makes me feel something."
"Please. You've got talent. Real talent." Tessa squeezes my arm. "And unlike half these trust fund babies, you actually have something to say."
"Speaking of something ..." I slow my pace, toying with the strap of my bag. "Remember that guy I told you about? The one who went full Jason Bourne on those frat boys?"
Tessa's eyes light up like I've just offered her front-row seats to Fashion Week. "The hot ex-Marine? What about him?"
"He came back last night." I try to sound casual, but my voice betrays me with a slight wobble. "Asked me to dinner."
"Holy shit!" Tessa stops walking entirely, grabbing my shoulders. "Please tell me you said yes to Mr. Dangerous-But-Heroic."
I wince, already anticipating her reaction. "I said no."
"You—" She blinks rapidly, processing. "Lila Marie Marks. A gorgeous man who actually has enough testosterone to fight off predatory assholes asked you out, and you declined? Why?"
We start walking again, slower now. Students rush past us toward the subway entrance.
"He's not a student. He's in his thirties. And he told me he's a private detective, for god's sake."
"And? That's supposed to be a negative?" Tessa raises one perfectly groomed eyebrow. "After the man-children you've dated here who think foreplay is asking if you're 'down to smash'?"
I snort despite myself. "That was one guy, and I never actually dated him."
"My point stands. Maybe someone more mature would be good for you." Her voice softens. "Not every older guy is... you know. Besides he's not that old."
The unspoken name hangs between us. Mr. Colton. Dane is probably around the same age as him.
Except you're not seventeen anymore, Lila.
"I just—" I drag a hand through my hair, messing up whatever remained of this morning's attempt at styling. "I told you how intense he is. And I don't do intense."
"There's a difference between intense and dangerous, Li."
"Is there?" I challenge. "Because from where I'm standing, they look pretty damn similar."
Tessa sighs, defeated for now. "Fine. But answer me this: did you want to say yes?"
I bite my lip, remembering how my heart had stuttered when Dane leaned against the bar, his gaze locked on mine. How for a split second, I'd imagined saying yes.
"That's not the point."
"That," Tessa says with the triumphant smile of someone who's just won an argument, "is exactly the point."
"He did say something else before he left." I adjust my bag strap, avoiding Tessa's laser-focused gaze. "That the dinner 'stands' if I change my mind."
"And he just left it at that? No pressure?" Tessa's eyebrows shoot up. "That's... actually kind of refreshing."
"Yeah." I kick at a stray pebble on the sidewalk. "No 'why not' or 'come on, just one drink.' He just nodded and left a twenty-dollar tip on a ten-dollar whiskey."
"So he respects boundaries and tips well? What's the problem?" Tessa steps in front of me, blocking my path. "Look, if you're really that nervous, we can set it up somewhere totally safe. Bright lighting, public place, the works."
I snort. "What, like the Natural History Museum with those creepy whale models watching us eat?"
"I was thinking more Luciano's." She grabs my arm excitedly. "And I could be your support and be there incognito! Like we did with that TikTok poet who turned out to have a shrine to his ex in his closet."
"God, don't remind me." I rub my temples, remembering the framed locks of hair. "You really think I should do this?"
"I think you haven't had that look in your eyes about someone in... well, ever, actually." Tessa softens her voice. "Plus, I can sit at the bar. One text and I'll create a diversion so magnificent they'll talk about it in acting classes for generations."
The image of Tessa faking a dramatic fainting spell in the middle of Luciano's makes me laugh despite myself.
"I haven't said yes to anything," I protest weakly.
"But you want to." She pokes me in the shoulder. "Admit it. You're curious about Detective Danger."
"Detective Danger? Really?"
"Working title. I'll workshop it." She grins. "Just say yes, and if it sucks, we'll go back to my place, drink expensive wine my parents sent, and you can tell me all the ways he disappointed you."
I sigh, already knowing I'm going to cave. The truth is, I haven't been able to stop thinking about those gray eyes, the way they see right through me. "Fine. If— if —I decide to go, you promise to be my backup?"
Tessa mimes crossing her heart. "One SOS text and I'll have you out of there faster than you can say 'check please.'"
My Tuesday shift crawls by at a glacial pace, and Wednesday doesn't look any better. I've wiped the counter exactly seventeen times, reorganized the top-shelf bottles twice, and checked my phone approximately every ninety seconds—not that I'm counting.
He's not coming.
"Another round, sweetheart?" The man at the end of the bar waves an empty glass at me.
"Coming right up," I smile professionally, though internally I'm contemplating how many olives I could stuff up his nose if he calls me "sweetheart" one more time.
I mix his martini with practiced efficiency, sliding it across the bar with a napkin. "Anything else I can get you?"
"Just your number." He winks.
"Sorry, company policy." I point to a sign that doesn't exist. "Bar staff can't fraternize with customers."
Funny how that policy seems to evaporate when I think about Dane.
The door opens and my heart does this stupid little jump before plummeting when it's just a group of students, not a certain broad-shouldered ex-Marine. God, I'm pathetic.
"You okay?" Joey asks, coming up beside me. "You keep looking at the door like you're expecting the tax man."
"I'm fine," I lie, reaching for a rag to wipe down the already spotless counter. "Just tired."
What I don't say: I'm waiting for a man who probably won't show because I turned him down like an absolute idiot. A man whose gray eyes haunt me when I close mine. A man who took down three guys without breaking a sweat and then politely asked to give me a ride.
The night wears on. Every time the door swings open, I look up. Every time, it's not him.
By midnight, I've gone from hopeful to irritated to a weird kind of sad that makes me angry at myself. Why am I even waiting? I said no. He respected that. End of story.
Except I don't want it to be the end of the story.
"Last call," I announce at 12:45 AM, my voice carrying over the dwindling crowd.
No sign of Dane. No tall figure in the dark corner, no quiet request for whiskey neat.
I count my tips at the end of the shift: decent money, terrible validation. Tomorrow I'll be better. I'll focus on my interview prep for the internships I'll be applying to and stop checking the door like some lovesick teenager.
But deep down, I know I'll be right back here tomorrow night, cleaning the same glass, straightening the same bottles, hoping for the same impossible thing.
Damn it, Dane Wolfe. Where are you?