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But the other half, the half I didn’t know existed, is…scared. I’m sure that’s not right, I’m notscared, but I can’t think of a better word. I’mscaredthat if I get too close, if I reach out to finally touch her, the heavenly mirage will disappear. I can’t let that happen.
I’m lost in a daydream of all the surfaces in this place I can fuck her on, when I hear a scratching at my door. It sounds like someone’s trying to pick my lock. I pull up the live feed of the locker room just to make sure.
Ha, I’m impressed. My little mystery has some balls.
There’s a pitter-pattering against my ribcage as I let her curse and struggle with the lock. What is she hoping to find? Surely not me. I can’t wait to see the look of sweet surprise on her face when she realizes I’ve been here the whole time. Will she scream? Freeze? Run away?Will I chase her?My dick hardens at the thought.
The pins in the lock sound like they are clicking into place, and there’s less resistance in her fiddling.Ah damnit.I have to keep some sort of reputation, and I can’t let little girls break into my office. Even if I’d love nothing more than punishing that little girl. Just as the lock disengages with a click, I dial the restaurant’s landline with a resigned sigh.
Chapter seven
An Audience with the King
Harlow
Istandup,asense of accomplishment welling in my chest. My hand is split seconds away from the door handle when the shrill ring of a phone makes me jump out of my goddamn skin.
Fuck, it’s probably the delivery man at the back door wondering where the hell I am.
I sprint to the landline behind the bar.
“Hello,” I say, catching my breath.
Nothing.
Only the hollow buzz of an open line.
“Hello?” I try again. Is someone breathing? It’s too faint, I can’t tell. Goosebumps rise on my arms.
“Anyone there? Can you hear me?”
The call drops.
I stand stock-still, the only movement is the jump of my pulse.
Calls drop all the time, right?And how many times have I answered the phone the exact same way? Delayed audio, bad service, or whatever.
Spam calls are practically a pandemic at this point, I try to reassure myself.
Whether it’s the delivery guy or spam, I decide it’s a good idea to wait in the kitchen anyway. He should be here any minute now.
I walk to the back and try to convince myself the new chill in the air is all in my head. The big, empty kitchen feels too quiet, so I play some music on my phone, picking at random. I just want to shake this feeling that something isoff.
I lean forward against the prep counter to read the recipes taped to the wall. I always get a kick out of the giant quantities. My eyes catch on nine pounds of sugar.That’s more than most newborns weigh.
“Miss Amanda Jones,” a deep, silky voice drawls.
My heart drops to my stomach. Every muscle in my body prepares for a fight as I turn around.
He’s resting against the range, ankles crossed in front of him as he dusts his thumb across his bottom lip. I’m face to face with Beth’s killer and the first thought that comes out of my mouth is…nothing. Absolutely nothing. It’s like my tongue has forgotten how to form words, my mouth parted with nothing but air ghosting out.
“Do you know who I am, Amanda?” The question is both loaded and casual. If he’s intending to throw me off balance, making me question what he knows or doesn’t, it’s working.
“Cash Fox. You own this place.” The corner of his mouth twitches when I say his name, his dark-green eyes giving nothing away but power.
This man is powerful. I knew this on paper, but there’s a difference between knowing something is true andfeelingit’s true. His presence alone seems to suck all the air from the room, clinging and bowing to the more powerful being.
I grip the counter behind me, remembering there is a magnetic strip of knives on the wall. A large, stainless-steel island for food prep stands between us, and I try to mentally calculate if I could beat him to the back door a few yards away.
