Page 308 of A Taste of Vanilla

This woman is expensive.

A vision in a tiny black dress, glossy heels, diamonds at her ears, and a fur-trimmed coat that looks illegal in at least three tax brackets. Her hair falls in perfect waves over one shoulder. Her lips are dark red.

She looks like a champagne bottle that learned revenge.

Every man near the door nearly drops his drink.

One Vipers player stops chewing.

Halston, beside me, goes very still.

The woman is smiling, but her eyes are not. The smile is practiced. Dazzling, dangerous. The kind of smile built for cameras, donors, stepmothers, and men who believe money makes them interesting.

Her eyes are tired.

Behind her come two security guards.

Fantastic. An entourage.

Nothing good has ever entered a bar with an entourage.

One of the Vipers players mutters, “Holy shit.”

I sigh. “I’m going to regret asking, aren’t I?”

Halston slowly sets down the glass in front of her. “Oh.”

I look at her. “What?”

She doesn’t take her eyes off of the woman. “That is not a casual entrance.”

“No entrance with security guards is casual.”

“No,” she says. “Look at her.”

“I am looking.”

“No, Oliver, look.”

So I do.

Against my will, I look past the diamonds, the coat, the red lips, and the expensive polish.

The woman’s fingers tighten around her clutch. Only once. Her jaw is held too carefully, her shoulders perfect. Like if she drops them even half an inch, something inside of her will shatter all over my floor, and I will have to pay someone to clean it up.

Great.

Grief in couture. My favorite.

Her eyes sweep the room. The players, the packed tables, the Vipers cap someone hung on the wall after Halston insisted my bar needed “community touches” and I said “no,” which she took to mean, “Use Command Strips.”

The bakery boxes are stacked near the end of the bar. The chalkboard advertising game-night cocktails I invented under financial duress. The chaotic little kingdom I pretend to not love.

Then her eyes land on me, brown and warm.

She walks straight to the bar like she owns the floor beneath her heels.

Maybe she does.