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In.
Out.
Slowly, my eyes flutter open, and I can’t hear the blood any longer. My eyes adjust to take in the four-poster bed, sparkling with an impressive gold that my gut tells me isn’t plated.
Fucking rich people.
Liquid drips from my fingertip, and I jerk my hand up to my jacket while taking in the droplets of blood that have now stained the white carpet.
“Shit,” I mutter, hurrying across the bedroom into the adjoining bathroom. I turn on the sink and shove my hand underneath the cool water, closing my eyes as the cut stings but sweet relief comes a few moments later.
Pink-tinted water gathers in the sink, and I open my eyes to watch it. Once it’s half way full, I shut off the tap and take my champagne dampened blazer off and bring the material to the jagged gash on my palm and apply pressure.
Jeremy is going to be so pissed when I return this to him. It’s the only piece of the uniform I was supposed to wear tonight to signal that I’m a server, and I managed to soak it in both champagne and blood. Maybe he’ll let me have it dry cleaned before I return it. I squint at my white blouse, and when I spot the pink wet spots, I sigh. At least my skirt is black.
I wait for the bleeding to stop, and then I study myself in the mirror. I swipe underneath my eyes to clear smudged mascara, and then I pull the hair tie holding my bun. Red, wavy locks spill around my face, framing it and taking away the attention from my baggy eyes and pale complexion. I hate wearing my hair up.
My head whips to the doorway when I hear the bedroom door knob turn. My eyes go wide and my heart begins to pound against my rib cage. I panic and shove the blazer into a trash can beside the toilet without thinking about what I’m doing.
Footsteps, muffled by carpet, sound outside the doorway, and I jerk upright and fix my skirt while searching my mind for some lie as to why I’m in here.
I got sick.
This was the only bathroom I could find.
I’m an idiot.
Okay, that last one might not be a lie. I bite my lip and wait.
Black shoes enter my vision first, and I follow a trail of black up until I lock on to seafoam green eyes. Instantly, I’m trapped. I let go of my lip and stand there, entranced like a fucking deer in the headlights, and it takes a deep baritone voice breaking through my concentration before I blink and focus on the man’s face.
“What?” I ask.
His cold eyes narrow, and he takes a step into the doorway. The sharp line of his jaw is even more pronounced with him closer, and the dark hair slicked back over his forehead makes him appear more deadly than handsome.
“I said, you’re an hour early.”
I stare at him for a moment, stunned. There’s a chill in his voice that lags everything he’s saying, and by the time I figure out he thinks I’m someone else, one side of his lips lifts into a crooked grin, and he takes another step toward me.
I grip the marble countertop and hold my breath as he closes the distance. His gaze rakes over me, pausing for a moment on the top buttons of my blouse. My throat dries up, and I search for a way to explain the blood, but he lifts his hand to my collar and I’m struck motionless as his knuckles graze my skin.
Heat flares over the patch he touches, and I suck in a breath. It’s been ages since a man has touched me like this. The last person who—
No, I’m not going there.
His touch leaves my skin, and he lifts a lock of my hair, studying it like it’s some sort of mystery.
“I could’ve sworn I asked for a blonde.”
“I um…” My face heats, and I try to take a step back but almost fall when my heel catches on the tile. He grips my shoulders to steady me, and when my gaze meets his again, his smile is wider.
“It’s okay. This is better.”
“I don’t think that I’m—”
“Come on.” He nods over his shoulder then takes my hand to lead me back into the bedroom. I stumble behind him, but my clumsy feet have nothing on my brain right now.
He thinks I’m a prostitute. One he ordered, apparently.
