Chapter 2
Quinn
I notice him right away.
The man in black in the corner booth. He’s not even seated anywhere near my section, but from the moment I start my shift, he’s watching me.
You don’t miss a man like that. Especially when he’s staring at you.
It’s early Wednesday evening, and already Velvet Lounge is filling up with the after-work executive crowd; the wealthy elite and those who hope to meet them. The lounge sprawls across the mezzanine floor of Vance Tower, one of the tallest and most opulent buildings in downtown Vancouver. It’s posh, expensive, and luxurious, and we, the cocktail waitresses, are an extension of the sumptuous decor.
I can’t really blame anyone for staring at us in our tiny, black velvet shorts, and strapless black bustier tops. It’s little more than lingerie.
But there’s something different about the way he looks at me.
It’s like he knows I’m just a lamb in disguise—because he’s the wolf.
He’s dressed entirely in black, a fine suit, no tie, crisp shirt unbuttoned at the collar. His brown hair is so dark it’s almost black, too. His skin is pale, his features sharp, his lips lush, and even across the chandelier-lit lounge I can feel the force of his eyes.
“Ugh, he’s alone now.” The waitress standing next to me at the bar smoothes her blonde curls dramatically. “There is no way I can keep serving him. I don’t care if he’s in my section. I will explode in tears if he scowls at me one more time with those villainous cyborg eyes.”
“So, make the new girl do it.”
I don’t mean to eavesdrop on my coworkers, but they’re right beside me as I input a drink order. The blonde loads drinks onto her cocktail tray, sinfully voluptuous in her little black uniform. Her name is Alessandra, or so I’m told; maybe she’ll tell me her real name once she gets to know me better.
We all have beautiful fake names in here. Mine is Dominique, which is weirdly exotic for a plain-Jane brunette with a passion for baking, even with the recent turquoise dye job. I’m told the fake names are to protect our privacy. But of course they’re also because everything is a glamorous illusion in this place.
“Make the new girl do… what?” I inquire, sliding my empty drink tray onto the bar beside Alessandra’s. Is she talking about Mr. Black? The man who’s been watching me from the corner booth? He sure fits her description. Sitting alone. Scowling. The men in this lounge generally aren’t doing either of those things.
“I’m sure he’s an excellent tipper,” she says, not sounding sure. “You probably won’t ever have to see him again anyway. I haven’t seen him in months. He, like, never comes in.”
“Which really makes the new girl wonder why you don’t want to serve him…” I say apprehensively.
“Did I mention he’s incredibly, horrifically handsome?”
“Uh-huh. If you look past the villainous cyborg eyes.” I bite my lip on saying any more. This is only my fifth shift at Velvet. I am the new girl, and I need this job.
“Owner’s table,” she says. “Don’t bother trying to impress him. That man hates everything.”
Hates everything…?
“Uh… okay. Which one is the owner’s table?”
“Corner booth in my section.” She picks up her drink-laden tray. “If I were you, I wouldn’t leave him waiting.” Before I can squeeze any more intel out of her, she hurries away with her tray of drinks, leaving me to collect my order.
After serving up the drinks on my tray, I walk through the room toward the corner booth where Mr. Black is seated. I didn’t know it was the owner’s table. Mr. Vance—or Daddy Damian, as the waitresses call him when he’s not around to hear it—comes in a lot, or so I’m told. I’ve only met him once. He was in tonight, sitting at this table, but left a few minutes ago.
As the new girl, I’ve never worked this section.
I’ve also never felt so intimidated approaching any of the patrons here as I do walking over to him .
If he’s sitting at Mr. Vance’s table, he must be a VIP.
He’s not looking at me right now. He’s looking at his phone. He doesn’t lift his eyes from the screen or show any sign that he knows I’ve approached the table, until I say, “Hello,” and lean in to place a cocktail napkin in front of him.
He meets my eyes—and I almost jerk back. That dark look says, Don’t come near me .
I think I startled him.
We stare at each other as my face heats. “Can I bring you a drink?”
When he finally speaks, he says one word to me, and that word is his drink order. “Manhattan.”
His voice is sinuous and dark, like liquid chocolate.
Oh my god. He’s so sexy.
Maybe the lighting is just that much more exceptional in this corner—I don’t think so—but he looks about two-hundred percent more beautiful up close.
Moments later, when I’ve scraped my shit together and swing back with his drink, I find him typing on his phone. I can’t help peeking at his phone screen, the object of his attention.
It looks like a text message, but I can’t read it.
“What are you working on?”
He stops typing.
I’ve casually asked other patrons what they’re working on, when they’re on their laptop or phone. They don’t seem to mind. If they don’t want to talk business with me, they just deflect to something else. Often, they take the opening to flirt.
But when Mr. Black’s eyes lift to mine, his prickling silence tells me that his business is not my business.
“I’m so sorry.” And now my face is heating all over again. “I don’t mean to interrupt you.” When I put his drink down, I notice that the cocktail napkin has been moved directly in front of him, the edge perfectly parallel with the straight edge of the table. I didn’t place it like that; it’s so purposeful.
I meet his gaze again, and find myself struggling for words. “Uh, my name’s Quinn, if you need anything.”
His stony eyes seem to say, Turn around and walk away, Quinn.
So that is exactly what I do, feeling a little wobbly in my high heels. I shouldn’t have hovered. Maybe he thought I was sniffing around for tip money?
Yes, I’m here for the money. But I’ve never felt so cheap about it.
At the bar, I stack cocktail napkins on my tray and try not to stare at him across the room. I just gave him my real name. That’s a first.
It’s also against the rules.
He just had me all flustered. It’s because he’s at Mr. Vance’s table, that’s all.
God, I hope he doesn’t complain about me.
I wonder why he stayed when Mr. Vance left. And why he didn’t have a drink in front of him until now. And why he’s not socializing with the other patrons, or flirting with the waitresses.
And most of all, why do I keep feeling his eyes all over me, every time I look away?
I dip into the staff room to make sure there’s not a huge piece of lettuce in my teeth, because I’m seriously starting to wonder what the man is staring at with such distaste. At least, I think it’s distaste.
I really need to pull myself together.
I decide to check the group chat on my phone labelled Squad for a quick pick-me-up, and find that my girlfriends have been chatting. I’m the only one working tonight.
But there’s also another message waiting for me.
Justin: Need you to work late tomorrow. Big catering order.
In my email, I find the cake order, which will take me hours to fill. The order came in this morning, and he’s just telling me about it now? I’m sure I told him I was seeing the girls tomorrow night.
I pop back into the Squad chat and tell my girlfriends, So sorry but I can’t make it tomorrow night, have to work at the bakery, with a wailing sad face emoji.
Which instantly gets a stream of replies.
Dani: NO. Full stop.
Nicole: But we never get to see you!!!
Dani: He better be paying you this time…
Nicole: As if you don’t have enough to do!
I definitely do. And I so desperately wanted this rare night out with the girls. But my car isn’t going to repair itself, and my landlord definitely isn’t getting talked out of raising the rent next month—I’ve already tried.
I text back quickly to quell their worries.
Me: He’s definitely paying me. There’s a huge catering order.
Nicole: Is this about Lorraine?
A knot tightens in my chest. If it weren’t for my incredibly ride-or-die girlfriends holding me together, I’d probably have fallen to pieces so many times over the last few years. But I’ve leaned on them enough.
Me: Mom is okay. Don’t worry.
Dani: I’ll stop worrying when you leave that man for good.
Dani is blunt like that, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’ve known Daniella Vola for many years as the most confident alpha female in any given room. She’s a total man-eater. Meaning she’s everything I’m not, but need in my life. And I know she disliked Justin from day one.
It took me a while, but I finally see why.
Five days ago, when I woke up at his place at four-thirty in the morning to get ready for my morning shift at the bakery, his phone was lighting up in the dark on his bedside table. I went to turn it face down, so he could sleep in a bit, and I saw the text. At least part of it. I also saw who it was from. And all the pieces just fell into place.
It’s so obvious now. That he’s been cheating on me with that cute girl who delivers the chocolate. And looking back at his behavior… it’s probably been going on for a while.
I don’t even know which hit me worse—the cheating, or the fact that she’s always been so nice to me. She even kinda looks like me.
Does she know about me and Justin?
Am I the only one being lied to, or is he lying to us both?
I know that a workplace relationship can get messy. That’s why we’ve been keeping ours a secret. Justin said we should, to protect me, because I’m dating the boss and that might cause problems with my coworkers.
But maybe he just wanted to make it easier for himself to keep fucking around.
Me: I’ll make it up to you girls another night. I promise.
Dani: It’s not that. How can you let him take advantage of you like this?
If only she knew the half of it.
I was planning to tell my girlfriends about Justin’s cheating in person, tomorrow night, because I know they won’t take it well. I wish I could say that even one of them will be surprised to find out that he did me so dirty.
But they won’t be surprised at all.
I really can’t get into it now except to say…
Me: It’s complicated.
Dani: You really need to quit. There are other bakeries.
True. But sadly, there’s about a zero percent chance I’ll quit this bakery, no matter how complicated things are between Justin and me.
Justin: Are you coming over?
I read the new text that pops up, and my stomach sinks. This is the first time he’s asked to see me in days.
Because he wants to know if he’s getting laid tonight, right?
I guess chocolate girl is busy.
He might as well have just said Wanna fuck?
It’s a lot less than I’m looking for after spending six months with a man. He probably doesn’t even remember that I’m working a night shift at Velvet on top of my day shift at the bakery.
There’s no Where are you, sweetheart? I miss you. No How did your day go? Can I take you to dinner?
I text him back.
Me: Not tonight. I’m working late.
Then I message my girls again.
Me: Have to get back to work. Thirsty tippers. XO
Nicole: Go get it girl. And I don’t just mean the tip!
She punctuates that with a tongue-out hungry emoji.
I shake my head with a smile and toss my phone back into my purse.
Nicole is a cocktail waitress, too, and it was her idea that we both apply at Velvet last month, after dragging the squad here for a girls’ night. She was envious, I know, but not at all sore about it when I was offered a job and she wasn’t—because the best friends are supportive like that. The tips at this place are insane, and she knows I need the money.
She’d also love it if some hot new guy—or three—caught my eye here, and I left Justin in the dust. Attractive men are Nicole’s love language.
I wonder what she’d have to say about Mr. Black.
When I head back out on the floor, I run into Alessandra at the bar. “How’s it going with my favorite customer?” she says sarcastically.
“You mean Mr. Black? Well, I’m not sure if he hates me and/or wants to eat me alive, and not in the good way.”
Her eyebrow creeps up. “You don’t know his name?”
“Why would I know his name?”
Pity flashes across her face. “It’s Harlan, honey. Harlan Vance. He’s one of Daddy Damian’s brothers.” My stomach tightens as her voice lowers. “The Vance family owns this whole building.” She adds ominously, “And everything in it.”
Of course, I know who the Vances are. They employ me.
What I did not know is that he is one of them .
I’ve only met Damian Vance. Until now.
I did not know that I just served a drink to one of my new bosses—and judging by his response to me, made a terrible first impression.
“So… why don’t you want to serve him?”
“Isn’t it obvious? He’s grouchy as hell, ice-cold, and unbelievably arrogant,” she says breathlessly, like she’s majorly turned on. “He probably wouldn’t touch me to save his life. I’m hopeless. Just keep me away from him.”
“You can take table twelve, in my section,” I offer. She really does seem stressed out. “Looks like they just sat down.”
“Thank you. And if you’re smart,” she warns, “you’ll stay away from him, too.”
“You told me to serve him!”
She shrugs, like, Sorry! , and heads for table twelve before I can change my mind. I sigh.
Drama. Cakes don’t give drama. I miss my cakes.
If only they paid better.
I swing through my section, stopping to chat with a group of men at one of my tables.
When I approach the owner’s table again, Mr. Black—Harlan Vance—is watching me. His eyes look unholy black. That hateful smolder of his could burn a city down.
“My glass has been empty for five minutes,” he tells me.
I scoop up the glass guiltily. “I’m so sorry. I’ll get you another.”
“You didn’t ask me if I want another.”
We stare at each other as my heart tries to hammer its way right through my ribcage. “Would you like another?”
“What I’d like is for you to notice that I’m sitting here.”
I blink, astonished. “I did notice.”
“Did you?”
“Yes. Of course I did.”
His expression is unforgiving. His eyes roam down, linger on my little shorts, then climb all the way back up my curves. I’m steaming by the time they drag over my cleavage. It’s like his fingers are all over me. His hot coal eyes snag on my throat, then my mouth, before meeting mine again.
“Bring me another drink, Quinn.”
“Yes, sir.”
I’m sure I feel his eyes burning into me as I beeline straight to the bar and collect his drink. I never call people sir . Even in here.
As I return directly to his table, he watches me approach. He’s fixated on me now, and I feel the pull like hot, sticky glue.
What the hell is going on?
I lay down a fresh cocktail napkin, perfectly parallel to the edge of the table, the way he did it, and set his Manhattan down. “May I get you anything else?” Not Can I . May I. It’s like I’m begging him to let me serve him. I don’t recognize the needy tone of my own voice.
Or the thirst I feel.
His gaze flicks down to my hand, which I realize is pressed to the table. I’m leaning over him a little. Hell, I’m holding myself up, he’s got me so twisted.
His eyes meet mine and hold for one excruciating moment. “Not right now.”
I stand up straight, nod politely, and walk away to check on my other tables. Breathing deeply. He’s not that intimidating. He’s just a man.
A man who employs me and thinks I’m an idiot.
I need to keep an eye on his table. On his glass. Or maybe find someone else to serve him? Avoid him altogether?
Not only is he one of my new employers, he’s a man-sized red flag. And that red flag reads: danger . The Vances are billionaires. They’re powerful. My life is complicated enough without attracting the attention—or the animosity—of someone who could destroy me.
Mom needs me, and I can’t fail her.
But when I circle back around to check on him, he’s gone.
His drink sits on the table, barely touched. I find two crisp one-hundred dollar bills lying beside it.
“Thank god.” Alessandra comes up behind me. “Is he gone?”
“Uh-huh. He left me two hundred, for two drinks.” I show her the money. “He didn’t even drink the second one.”
“That’s not for the drinks, hon. The Vances don’t pay for drinks here. That’s for you .”
“Oh.” I can’t understand why he’d leave me so much after he reprimanded me like that. “Maybe he made a mistake?”
She regards my turquoise hair with curiosity. “Or… maybe the man who hates everything finally found something he likes.”