At least, not for some time. And I need to wait for the druid.
There's another part I don't say aloud, but the weight of it lingers between us anyway. That unspoken question:What happens after?
I can't answer. I don't know what I should do. What Iwantto do.
"If you're all right with that, Winston," I add, meeting his gaze.
"Of course, my dear. How about tomorrow evening?"
I nod. "It's a deal."
A job. A roof over my head. A strange kind of family orbiting around me. The real decisions can wait.
For a few more days, I can pretend I have a normal life. As normal as it can get for someone like me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Sage
My hands move on autopilot, stacking drinks and snacks onto the tray, but my mind's running wild with numbers and impossible plans.
Best-case scenario is making enough in the next three days to pay back Asher for the crystal, the druid's travel and fee, the clothes he bought me, the burner phone he insisted I have, and maybe, somehow, scrape together enough for a car of my own.
Right. Totally doable. If I were an actual goddess of gold and fortune.
Even with my allure pulsing through the room—drawing gazes like bees to nectar—it won't be enough. The tip jar's already been emptied three times tonight. It's still not enough. Not in three days.
Which means I'll have to stay.
Which means... I don't know what that means yet.
I glide to a table, setting down the orders with a polished smile. "Here you go, gentlemen. Hope you enjoy."
"Oh, we're enjoying," one of them drawls.
"Thank you, doll," the other adds, his voice wheezy with age. He's got at least eight decades behind him and enough liverspots to count as a map, so I let the 'doll' slide and move on without comment.
They all look. It's the allure. I'm not trying to rein it in, so it stirs like an invisible force. But none of them cross the line. Not here. There are unspoken rules atCole's, and everyone knows Winston doesn't tolerate disrespect. Not toward his people.
When I finally get a five-minute break, I use it to right one of my many wrongs.
I head toward the small back office where Jace has been holed up all evening. I knock. He calls out a clipped "Yeah?" so I push the door open.
He's in his usual uniform—dress shirt and tailored pants, like New York clings to him even out here. He doesn't look up right away, still scanning some spreadsheet or invoice.
"Anything I can do for you?" he asks, flat and businesslike.
I step in and place a folded bundle of cash on his desk—two-hundred-fifty dollars in tips, all sweaty and slightly crumpled. "I come bearing peace. Or, at the very least, a truce."
Now he looks at me. Raises a brow. "This is more than what you took."
"Consider it interest," I say, settling into the chair across from him without waiting for an invitation. "Look, I can't undo what I did. But I'd rather not have us glaring at each other every shift. If you're willing to give me another chance... I'd appreciate it."
He exhales, long and thoughtful, eyeing the money like it might bite him. Then, finally, he nods.
"All right," he says. "I can do that. We've all had moments where we were cornered. I get it."
A small smile tugs at my lips. "Thanks, Jace. I mean it."
