Chapter 10
LILA
I 'm not even sure why I keep looking at the door.
Every time the bell jingles, my heart does this stupid little flutter thing, and then immediately plummets when it's not him.
It's pathetic, really. Like I'm in some badly written rom-com where the quirky bartender pines for the mysterious stranger.
"Another gin and tonic, please," calls Mr. Henderson, a regular I've gotten acquainted with. The guy thinks tipping five percent is being generous.
"Coming right up," I say, forcing a smile that looks convincing enough to the average drunk.
I'm mixing the drink when the door opens again, and I'm trying to train myself not to look. Not to care. But there's a shift in the air, like the barometric pressure just dropped before a storm.
It's him.
Dane walks in—no, not walks—he moves like water finding its path, deliberate and inevitable. Clean-shaven, hair styled just enough to look careless, and wearing a dark blue button-down that makes his gray eyes pop like thunder against an evening sky.
Fuck.
"Hey," I manage, and my voice doesn't betray me. Thank God.
"Hey yourself." His voice is gravel and whiskey, and something inside me liquifies.
I slide Mr. Henderson's drink down the bar and turn back to Dane, trying for casual. "The usual?"
"If you remember it." There's that half-smile, the one that transforms his face from dangerous to devastating.
"Maker's Mark, neat." I pour two fingers worth, definitely not watching how his forearms flex as he rests his hands on the bar top.
"You remember." He sounds pleased.
I shrug, fighting the heat rising in my cheeks. "It's my job."
When I slide his drink over, our fingers brush. The contact is electric, embarrassingly so. I pull back too quickly, nearly knocking over a bottle.
"Careful there," he murmurs.
I risk meeting his eyes. "So... about that dinner."
The corner of his mouth twitches upward. "Changed your mind?"
I take a deep breath, channeling Tessa's confidence. "Maybe. If the offer still stands."
Something shifts in his expression—surprise, pleasure, relief?—before he carefully arranges his features into that controlled mask again.
"It stands."
"I need to pick the place," I say, wiping down the bar with unnecessary focus. It comes out more commanding than I'd planned, but I'm not taking it back. I'm not stepping into the lion's den without the upper hand.
Dane lifts his glass, taking a slow sip while watching me over the rim. I pretend not to notice how his throat works as he swallows.
"Of course. My aim is to please you," he says.
Holy fuck!
I busy myself rearranging bottles that don't need rearranging. "So tomorrow night? I'm off." The words tumble out before I can stop them, and I mentally kick myself. God, could I sound more desperate? Why not just hand him my calendar with all my free time highlighted?
His face doesn't change, but something in his eyes does—a flicker of intensity that makes my stomach drop. Not in fear. In something else entirely.
"Tomorrow works," he says, that steel-gray gaze still holding mine.
His voice is so low I almost have to lean in to hear him over the ambient noise. Bad idea. Leaning in means smelling him—a combination of clean cotton, faint cologne, and something distinctly male that makes my brain short-circuit.
I nod, trying to look casual while my internal monologue is screaming. What the actual hell are you doing, Lila? This is the exact opposite of your "no dangerous men" policy. And this guy? Walking red flag factory.
"I'll text you the address," I hear myself saying, reaching for a napkin and sliding it toward him. "Your number?"
He pulls out a sleek black pen from nowhere—of course he carries an actual pen—and writes a series of digits in precise, angular handwriting. Even his penmanship is controlled. Tessa would have a field day psychoanalyzing that.
"Until tomorrow," Dane says, finishing his whiskey in one smooth motion and standing up. He leaves cash on the counter—way more than necessary, always—and walks out without looking back.
I stare at the napkin with his number, the reality of what I've just done sinking in.
What's the worst that could happen? my brain helpfully supplies. Oh, I don't know—death, dismemberment, heartbreak?
Or maybe just dinner.
LILA
The next day—Friday afternoon—I'm trying on outfit number five in Tessa's walk-in closet, which is bigger than my entire bathroom. For someone who tries to play down her trust fund, my best friend has a ridiculous amount of designer clothes.
"What about this one?" I emerge wearing a black dress that's probably simple by Tessa's standards but costs more than my monthly student loan payment.
Tessa tilts her head, appraising me with narrowed eyes. "Too funeral chic. We need something that says 'I'm sophisticated but could still kick your ass if needed.'"
"Is that the vibe we're going for?" I pull at the too-tight fabric. "Because right now I'm giving 'can't breathe and definitely can't run away if he turns out to be a serial killer.'"
"Lila! He's not a serial killer. There are nice guys out there." Tessa rifles through another rack. "He's just an extremely hot, slightly intimidating ex-military private detective who beat up three frat boys with his bare hands. Like I said… nice."
"When you put it like that, how could I possibly be nervous?" I roll my eyes, stepping out of the dress. Though I can't deny the appeal, my answer to the call of danger.
Tessa's apartment is what she calls "modest", a one-bedroom in East Village with exposed brick walls, floor-to-ceiling windows, and furniture that looks like it belongs in a magazine.
Her parents pay for it, of course, but Tessa tries not to flaunt her wealth.
She just happens to live like someone who's never had to choose between dinner and electricity.
"Try this." She tosses me a deep green silk slip dress. "It'll make your eyes pop, and it's casual enough that you won't look like you're trying too hard."
I slide it on, and damn if she isn't right. The fabric feels like water against my skin, and the color makes my pale complexion look luminous instead of ghostly.
"Holy shit, Tess. I look..."
"Gorgeous," she finishes, beaming. "Dane Wolfe won't know what hit him."
I stare at my reflection. The dress hugs my curves without being tight, falling to just above my knees. I look like myself, but a version that doesn't have to work doubles on weekends when things get tough.
"Okay, but what exactly does one talk about with a guy in his thirties? My dating pool has been exclusively broke students who think splurging is buying the name-brand ramen."
Tessa hands me a pair of ankle boots with a sensible heel. "Just be yourself. He obviously likes you physically and vise versa, but if you want a true connection, that's the way to go." She pauses, grinning. "Though maybe skip the part where you Google-stalked him at 2 AM."
"I did not Google-stalk him!" I protest. "I conducted preliminary background research. It's called journalism." I found only surface level things about me. The guy doesn't do social media. Not that I'm surprised.
"Uh-huh. And was the forty minutes you spent looking at his LinkedIn photo also 'journalism'?"
I throw a pillow at her head. "I hate you."
"You love me." She dodges expertly. "Just remember, more mature guys appreciate directness. None of that game-playing bullshit. If you like him, tell him. If he's moving too fast, tell him that too."
I sink onto her pristine white couch. "What if I'm making a huge mistake? After Mr. Colton, I swore I'd never?—"
"Stop." Tessa sits beside me. "Dane isn't Colton. He's not your teacher or in a position of power over you. And from what you've told me, he seems to actually respect boundaries."
"Yeah, but?—"
"But nothing. You deserve something good. Even if it's just dinner with a hot guy who looks at you like you're the only person in the room."
I take a deep breath. "Fine. But if I end up dead, I'm haunting you forever. I'll rearrange your color-coded closet and hide one shoe from every pair you own."
"God, your evil. But deal. Now let's talk accessories. You can't fight off a serial killer without the right earrings."
I'm halfway through trying on Tessa's collection of statement earrings when my phone buzzes. Probably Joey asking me to cover someone's shift again. I swear he thinks I have no life outside that bar.
"One sec," I tell Tessa, fishing my phone from my purse. "If it's Joey asking me to work tonight, I might actually commit a felony."
I check my notifications and nearly drop the phone.
"Holy shit." My voice comes out as a whisper.
"What? Is it Dane canceling? Because if so, I already have a voodoo doll started and?—"
"No, it's—" I turn the screen toward her. "Veritas. They want to interview me. Tuesday at 2 PM."
Tessa's scream could shatter glass. She throws her arms around me, nearly knocking me over. "I knew it! I fucking knew they'd want you!"
The email glows on my screen: Dear Ms. Marks, We are pleased to invite you for an interview for the Investigative Journalism Internship...
"This is huge," I say, my heart pounding. "Like, life-changing huge."
"Forget the date outfit," Tessa declares, spinning toward her closet with renewed purpose. "We need to find you something that screams 'hire me to uncover your biggest stories' and also 'I'm professional enough not to get you sued.'"
I laugh, but she's right. The internship at Veritas is everything I've been working toward. Their exposés on corrupt politicians and predatory CEOs are legendary in journalism circles. The kind of work that actually makes a difference.
"What about this?" Tessa pulls out a charcoal pantsuit that somehow manages to look both serious and stylish.
"I love it." I take it from her, holding it against me. "God, can you imagine? Working at Veritas? Their piece on that pharmaceutical company price-gouging literally changed legislation."
"You and me," Tessa says, eyes gleaming with ambition. "Future journalism powerhouses. They won't know what hit them."
"You at Catalyst and me at Veritas? We'd be unstoppable." I hang the suit carefully on Tessa's door. "Veritas is legend!"
"Bringing down bad guys with nothing but a laptop and sheer fucking brilliance?" Tessa grins. "It's what you were born for."
She's not wrong. Ever since New Orleans, I've dreamed of having that kind of power—the ability to shine a light into dark corners, to make those who hurt others face consequences. To create the justice I never got.
"Maybe I could even pitch something about teacher-student relationships," I say, trying to sound casual. "You know, the grooming, the power dynamics..."
Tessa's expression softens. She knows what I'm really saying. "You'd crush that story, Lila. And Veritas would be lucky to have someone who understands it from the inside."
I swallow the lump in my throat. "Anyway, let's focus. I need to nail this interview."
"And your date," Tessa adds, returning to her closet. "Don't think I've forgotten about Detective Dark and Dangerous."
I laugh. "One life-changing event at a time, please."
But as Tessa pulls out blouses and blazers, talking about power accessories and interview techniques, I can't help imagining it: me at Veritas, uncovering truths, protecting people who can't protect themselves.
Making men like Mr. Colton pay.