Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
DEE
Over the next month, I watch my best friend happily settle into life with the man of her dreams while the green-eyed monster eats me alive.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled Roni and Nathan finally got together.
But—and this is a BIG BUT—watching their relationship blast into the stratosphere has driven home just how lonely I am.
And how much I want the man who makes my soul sing to notice me as more than a loyal employee.
I glance around the bar guiltily to make sure no one is watching.
“Hello?” My voice does a weird seesaw thing I instantly hate.
“Deirdre Quinn?” Male voice. Polished. Slight Brooklyn accent.
“This is she,” I say, trying for casual but landing somewhere between hoarse and asthmatic.
“Hello, Ms. Quinn, this is Jacob Amon, owner of Velvet. I received your application last week, and your references are… impressive. Do you have time for a quick chat?”
I nearly drop the phone. This really isn’t the time, but oh well. “Absolutely.”
“Splendid.” He says the word like he means it.
“We’re looking for a bar manager, but also someone who can revive our cocktail program.
A creative lead. I have sources who tell me you would be a perfect candidate.
” I’m not sure who his sources are. I listen to him while glancing around to make sure Eamon isn’t lurking; the last thing I need is for him to overhear me pitching my way out of his employ.
“If you’re free this coming weekend, I’d like to fly you in for an interview. Full expenses paid. Interested?”
“I’m very interested.” I bite my tongue to keep the giddy schoolgirl shriek inside my head.
“Great. My assistant will email your itinerary to you today. Plan for three days. If you’re a fit, I’d make you an offer before you return. Fair?”
“Sounds great. I’ll be there.” I hang up, and my hands are still buzzing, maybe from adrenaline, maybe from sheer terror.
Now, I have to come up with a reason for my sudden three-day vacation this coming weekend. Oof.
The rest of the shift is a blur as I work on autopilot while planning my deception.
The next afternoon, I corner Eamon in his office. I find my smoking hot boss hunched over the glow of his monitor, sleeves rolled up, forearms corded and scarred. His fingers never stop moving, not even when I knock. “Yeah?” Not even a glance my way.
I clear my throat and launch into the spiel I’ve been practicing since last night. “I need Friday, Saturday, and Sunday off. Personal days.”
He looks up and stares into my eyes with a blue, steely glare. “What’s up with the short notice?”
“I know, I’m sorry. It’s… uh, personal.” I fold my arms to keep from fidgeting. “And important.”
He squints at me, and I suddenly feel like a worm under a magnifying glass. “Could it wait a week or two?” His Irish accent seeps into the words.
“Not really.” I know I’m being vague, but the truth is a no-go, and I’m horrible at lying.
He stares at me for a full five seconds, weighing something in his head. “Fine, but I need you back by Monday.”
I nod and duck out before he can change his mind, nearly tripping over my own feet as I close the door. I don’t let myself think about how easy it was, or whether he’ll notice when I’m gone, or why his easy acceptance hurts this much.
JFK is a goddamn nightmare. The moment I step off the plane into the arrivals area, I get walloped right in the face with chaos.
Everywhere I turn, there’s another person yelling into a Bluetooth or pushing their way through the craziness.
Thank God, I only brought a carry-on bag, which means I can skip the luggage carousel and escape.
I take a cab into Manhattan, already sweating what’s coming.
I barely notice the ride as I mentally prepare myself for the coming interview.
The hotel Jacob’s people booked is nicer than anything I could afford without pawning a kidney.
The lobby is all marble, chrome, and chilly luxury.
Checking in is a breeze, and the elevator barely makes a sound as it ascends to the thirtieth floor.
My room is high enough that I can barely hear the traffic, just a steady hush like the city is humming me to sleep.
After laying out my clothes for the next day, I take two melatonin and snuggle up in the heavenly king-sized bed.
The next morning, I practice my pitch while showering and dressing.
Once I’m ready, I barely have time for a quick protein bar before a black car picks me up at ten a.m. sharp.
The driver—tall, black suit, expensive cologne—addresses me as “Ms. Quinn” and hands me a cold brew that’s the best I’ve ever had.
My first sign that this is not amateur hour.
Velvet is in SoHo, tucked right between a ramen joint that always smells like heaven and a minimalist boutique with mannequins in thousand-dollar suits.
The bar entrance is literally just a flat matte black door with zero markings.
The driver buzzes me in, like I'm being admitted to a secret society or something.
I can’t help myself. I spin in a circle, taking it all in.
Holy. Freaking. Shit. Velvet doesn't just live up to the name—it wallows in it.
Black tufted booths curve around little marble-topped tables, screaming luxury.
The back bar is a monster, stretching all the way to the ceiling, with every bottle arranged like a chess set.
The light is so low and gold, drenching everything in this sexy shadow.
I feel like Alice falling straight down the rabbit hole, no turning back, everything detailed and decadent and dizzying.
Upstairs, a guy in a plum blazer is waiting for me.
He guides me through the door like he does this hundreds of times a day.
The office is fucking massive, and the man behind the desk is much more intimidating than I’d expected.
I researched Jacob Amon online and found out he’s a thirty-eight-year-old millionaire with a mysterious background.
Literally. There’s nothing at all to be found about him beyond ten years ago when he opened his first club.
He stands to shake my hand, and it’s not your average handshake; the way he does it, careful and calculating, screams of his power.
"Dee. May I call you Dee?" he asks, smooth as glass.
"Of course." I squeeze back, just to let him know I'm not here to fold under pressure, and let him direct me toward a couch that I’m betting costs more than the balance of my entire stock portfolio.
Jacob sits across from me and launches right in. “Why do you want to leave Midnight Madness?”
Direct hit. I could bullshit about career goals, but I promised myself I’d be honest this time.
“Because I’m tired of being an underdog.
I’ve revamped and reinvented the menus of three bars and trained more bar staff than I can count, and I’m ready to move up.
There isn’t room for advancement at Midnight Madness. ”
He leans back in the chair, fingers steepled, eyes on me like he’s the one with all the cards. “So, what’s your approach to managing a bar?”
Every nerve lights up, but I hold steady and let the words pour out.
“Not treating customers like morons. Craft without the attitude. Staff who don’t hate their jobs.
Cocktails that aren’t just another Pinterest recipe with a clever name.
” I pause when I realize my voice is the only one in the room, tumbling on and on, like I can’t stop.
“I’m not a robot. Neither are my people. Bar patrons want a genuine experience.”
Jacob’s smile is sharp. “I like your thinking. Why don’t we take a look around?”
Excitement buzzes through me as he shows me the entire operation.
We swing through every square inch of the place.
No joke, the bar’s backroom is double the size of my apartment.
Jacob points out inventory systems so slick I almost weep.
There’s a walk-in fridge with LED lighting and fully stocked shelves.
It reminds me a lot of Midnight Mischief, and I can’t help but wonder if I’m doing the right thing.
I push the doubts aside and follow Jacob around.
He moves with this silent, smooth power, and I try not to stare at his hands every time he gestures to something.
The man has CEO energy turned up to eleven.
I take notes, literally and mentally, while he quizzes me on everything from siphoning kegs to staff retention.
I ace every question, and he knows it. Not a brag. Just a fact.
At one point, he leans in close enough that I get a whiff of his cologne.
Sandalwood and something expensive and dark, like a forbidden forest mixed with money, but I don’t even get a kick of adrenaline.
Or desire. Nothing. This is fucking great.
I can work here without worrying about falling for another unattainable man.
Jacob’s eyes flick over me, quick and calculating. “You seem entirely unflappable, Dee.”
I shrug, playing it cool. “I’ve had drinks thrown at my face, been called every name in the book, and once broke up a fight with a well-placed kick. Not much rattles me.”
His laugh is just a flash, gone as fast as it came. “I believe it. Now, let’s talk cocktails. If I told you Velvet’s crowd is high-end but jaded, what’s the first drink you’d put on my menu?”
Oh, this is almost too easy.
“Something classic, but dangerous,” I say.
“Like a dirty Boulevardier, but smoked table-side. Something you smell before you taste. It makes people sit up and whisper, ‘What’s that?’” I finish, confident as hell.
“It’s not about being showy for the sake of it.
It’s about expectation and drama. People want to be seduced by a drink before they even taste it. ”
Jacob’s eyes narrow a bit, like he’s genuinely impressed, or maybe plotting how to sell me on the black market if I don’t work out. With this guy, I feel it could go either way.