Page 1 of The Cost of Love

Chapter 1

Chanice

Getting money is better than having sex.

Okay, they are pretty equal. But if I can’t have one, I’d better at least have the other. So, although it’s been almost two years since someone has blown my back out, payday comes once a week with my two jobs.

Sadly, it’s all gone by the time I pay all my bills, and I’m left with a hundred quid for unexpected expenses for the week. Though, those five minutes when I get to stare at the number in my account are sort of worth the struggle to get it.

At least, that is what I tell myself as I move between these well-dressed bodies, a tray of appetizers in my hand. The uniform I am forced to endure sits tight around my neck, choking me a little. Whoever thinks waitstaff should wear a bow tie, a vest, and a white pressed shirt don’t realize how uncomfortable and hot it is to maneuver in. Sweat pools under my breasts as they strain against this outfit. Despite this, I try to keep a smile on my face.

I don’t know why. None of these people look at me anyway. They are too busy engaging in conversation about money, politics, and gossip to care about us. I’m called to a corner of the room just in time to witness another one of these enlightening talks.

“No, I heard he only took the company to spite his father.” A woman in a black, skintight dress says, motioning for me to lower the tray.

“Nonsense. With his education and upbringing, what else is he going to do?” the man standing next to her chimes in.

“He could have gone the path of his sister. It would surprise no one with how close they are.” She lifts two of the bruschetta plates and passes one to the man.

“Shh, here he comes,” he says.

Instead of using the sense to act like I wasn’t listening, I turn to see who they’re talking about.

Like everyone else here, he is dressed to the nines in what I assume is a designer suit. Unlike the rest, he made the bold choice of going with burgundy, making him stand out amongst the navy blues and blacks of the room. The color is the first thing to catch my attention before my eyes roam up and get lost in his beautiful face.

His pale skin glows under these bright lights, highlighting all the sharp outlines of his cheeks and jaw. He looks like something carved out of marble meant to represent a Greek god. Perfectly symmetrical, except for the crook in his nose. It’s a slight imperfection that hints at a story. I want to know it. I want to know more about him as my eyes catch on to the hazel coloring of his.

Suddenly, I go from staring at them to in them as we lock eyes for a moment before horror creeps into my gut, making me realize what I’m doing. He stops right in front of me, blocking my exit and interrupting my escape.

“Alexander,” the woman says, her voice pitchy. “It’s so good to see you.”

Shock causes me to scoff at the audacity of this woman. She was just talking shit about him a minute ago. I hear a chuckle and look up to see Alexander smiling. He winks at me like we are in on some kind of joke. My cheeks heat up at the realization of what I’ve done.

“Have you tried the bruschetta? It’s delicious,” she continues on, ignoring my outburst.

“I haven’t. May I?”

Lost in the sound of his deep voice, it takes longer than it should for me to realize he is talking to me.

Not looking at him, I move the tray closer so that he can take a plate. When it lightens a little, I try to go around him, but he steps into my path again.

“Thank you,” he says.

The first person to say those words to me tonight. I look into his eyes and see that he means it. Stepping around him, I fight to stop my lips from curving.

While walking away, the sensation that he is still looking at me follows me until I am in the kitchen. The heavy doors thud shut behind me, cutting off his view.

“Chanice!”

My best friend, Jessie, is leaning against the wall, a plate of food in her hand as she calls out to me. Still in her uniform, she does her best not to spill on herself while scarfing down the food we are supposed to be serving.

“Love, you’re going to get caught one day. You know Elise is strict,” I say loading my tray with more plates.

“Tomas and her let us take the leftovers home, anyway.”

“They are still eating, so these aren’t technically leftovers yet.” And there is no telling how mad Tomas would be to know we are eating his food instead of serving it. As the head chef, he meticulously plans the portions to be enough for the guests.

She shrugs and stands straight, dusting her hands off on her pants. “Fuck it.”