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My fingers are wrinkled, but I can’t – won’t – quit now. The suds are frothy as I wash each glass to perfection. It's not until there's nothing left to clean that I allow myself to steal another glance across the room.
Walker shifted his stance, and Cara is practically draped over him, her laughter soft and sultry, throaty in a way that probably has every man’s attention. But there's something in the way Walker stands – his body turned ever so slightly away from her, shoulders squared with a casual disinterest – that whispers indifference. The tiny flicker of hope inside me fans into a flame, then I wonder why I care. They can have each other. I have Chase. And I don’t have to compete for his love and affection, or worry about him being tempted by a prettier woman.
I dry my hands on a towel before tossing it into the wash bin. With measured steps, I close the distance between myself and the little group, watching as Cara’s eyes narrow just a fraction at my approach. Her lip curls, a silent expression of disgust meant for me alone, and I suppress the urge to respond in kind.
“Done with the dishes at long last?” Walker asks.
I nod.
“Good, good,” Walker says, his gaze locking on me, warm and unsettlingly intimate. Cara's head snaps up, her eyes wide with an emotion that might be surprise, or perhaps irritation; it's hard to tell.
“I wanted to discuss your ideas for this place.” Walker gestures at the room, commanding my full attention… probably without trying. “Cara, would you mind giving us a moment?”
The words roll off his tongue with such smoothness that for a second, we're frozen by it. Cara looks confused and unwilling to move. She scans Walker's face, searching for a sign that he's joking or a weakness she can jump on to stay right here. But Walker only offers her a polite nod, and the finality of it leaves Cara tense.
“Thank you,” he adds, in a tone that reminds everyone he’s the boss.
With a huff of pure frustration, Cara walks away, her departure marked by the exaggerated sway of her hips. For a brief second, my eyes follow the hypnotic motion, drawn out of curiosity and appreciation despite myself.
“Your ideas were interesting.” Walker waits to speak until Cara's out of earshot, drawing my attention back to him. His proximity sends a jolt through me, a crackle that seems to leap from my skin to his. Every nerve ending sings with awareness, and I'm reminded why this man, with his mix of danger and appeal, can unsettle me so thoroughly.
“Really?” I can’t imagine he plans to use any of them. But as my pulse thrums with a mix of anxiety and excitement, I keep quiet about the fact that I didn't think he’d take them seriously.
“Never underestimate your own potential,” he says, his tone spiked with something that sounds like respect. I'm not sure how to respond. My mind is reeling from the unexpected praise and the even more unexpected dismissal of Cara.
Walker's eyes hold a flicker of genuine warmth and enthusiasm that his expression doesn’t betray as he leans in slightly, bridging the gap between us with his presence. “A good friend of mine who runs a club talked to me about your ideas,” he says, his voice low and unexpectedly friendly. “He loves all of them and has even asked if he can implement a few at his place. He’s three cities over, so no worries about competition.”
Surprise grips me, and I feel my brows rise in disbelief. My heart hammers, not only from the closeness of Walker but also from the shock of his words. “Of course he can.” The words slip out of my mouth, a reflexive response to what seems like a question that’s not one I can refuse. Why would he need my permission? I watch as the corners of Walker’s lips press back into something that I wouldn’t quite call a smile, but the expression warms his features and softens the hard lines of his face.
With a smooth motion, Walker pulls a small slip of paper from the depths of his tailored suit pocket. The action is fluid, almost practiced, as if he's done this a million times before. My fingers tremble slightly as I accept the paper from him, unfolding it to reveal a receipt. A series of numbers catch my eye, and my mind goes blank for a moment, unable to process what’s happening right now.
“What is this?” I ask, lifting my gaze to meet his, feeling utterly confused.
Walker’s expression shifts into something that resembles a smile even more, a rare sight that sends an unfamiliar warmth shooting through my belly and chest. “Your ideas are good, and you deserve to be compensated for your time and efforts.” His voice carries a note of certainty, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world, and I'm the last to know.
I stare down at the paper again, reality slowly dawning on me. The numbers represent money—a full year of what I typically earn, deposited into my bank account using my direct deposit information. “This is too much,” I say, the words barely above a whisper, my throat constricting with a mix of appreciation and discomfort.
But Walker doesn't give me the opportunity to refuse. He shakes his head, dismissing my protest. “I gave you the current going rate for someone who offers comparable services.” I can hear in his voice that he's used to having his generosity accepted without question.
My mind races, searching for a way to explain my hesitation, to convey that this isn't how things are done—not in my world. But the sheer enormity of this gesture leaves me speechless, my usual quick wit lost in his unexpected kindness.
The realization that I now have a substantial safety net in my account is overwhelming, terrifying, and thrilling. Looking into Walker's piercing eyes, I understand that refusing him might be just as risky as accepting the monitory show of appreciation.
My breath hitches. “You didn’t have to pay me,” I say, still struggling with the words to make this right.
He nods. “I didn’t. Alex did. My plans to repay you are currently being drafted.”
Alex. The man with the kind eyes I’d served at the bar. He’d seemed so unassuming, besides knowing Walker, of course. I clutch the slip of paper like a lifeline, my hand trembling. Walker watches me, his gaze expectant, the intensity of those eyes warning me there’s no other option but to accept this payment.
“Go ahead and answer that,” he says, nodding toward my phone buzzing in my pocket with a persistence that can't be ignored.
“Thank you – it might be important,” I say, needing a moment to organize my thoughts and find a loophole that will allow me to politely refuse. My fingers tremble as I pull the device from my pocket, unlocking it to reveal a flood of messages from Amber.
With a tap, the screen fills with a video—a window into a scene I'm not prepared for. The bass thumps in the background, the strobe lights flash, and there he is. My boyfriend. Or the man I thought was my boyfriend. His arm is draped casually around another woman, her laughter bringing a smile to his face through the noise of the party. My stomach clenches, bile rising in my throat as I watch him lean closer, their lips meeting in a kiss, in a betrayal so complete it feels like a physical blow.
The kiss deepens, passion and desire exploding in a way he's never kissed me before. And the way she responds, eagerly, hungrily, sends a lance of pain straight through my heart. They've forgotten the rest of the world exists because they’re lost in each other, and then they part.
Without a second to waste, he’s guiding her away with a hand possessively at the small of her back. A bedroom door closes behind them, leaving nothing but pain chewing away at my insides like I’ve swallowed acid.
