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“I didn’t ask to be called.” Instantly, I’m sure it’s the wrong thing to say.
His nostrils flare. “No, you don’t have to ask for anything, do you? Things happen to you, right?”
Heat flushes up my neck. “Yes, and if you’d be less of a screwup, maybe things wouldn’t have to happen to me all the time.”
The tension in his muscles vanishes, a balloon deflating. He shakes his head. “You always go straight for the jugular.”
“Darren, I’m sorry. You—there’s a lot of people celebrating in the ballroom right now, and it’s not a good time.” I glance around at the kitchen staff. They busy themselves with work—or some version of pretending to work.
“What do you need?”
“Just some money and I’ll get out of your way.” Darren’s focus is somewhere just left of where it should be. His pupils devour the irises. This isn’t the big brother who once told me if he ever caught me smoking, he’d lock me in a room with a bear.
“No, can’t do that. Something else.”
“A place to crash,” he says, automatically. “We can stay in Mom’s spare room.”
“I’m not staying in Mom’s house. I’m sleeping on the couch in the office. I don’t—”
He snorts. “Yeah, I get it. It’s fine. I’ll figure it out like I always do.” He pivots and disappears out the back door. A whoosh of cool spring air chases away his lingering smell.
All eyes turn back toward me. I point to the sous-chef. “Most people turn the salt upside down to shake it out.”
He jolts, noticing his mistake, and upends the salt.
“Show’s over.” I clap my hands, not quite sure when I became the kind of guy who claps his hands at people. “Let’s get back to work.”
The kitchen dissolves into a blur of activity as they all resume their work—for real this time.
I start toward the ballroom and pause just in sight of the crowd by the bar. The groom has joined the shot takers. Jeremy-slash-Jarred is shaking up a martini beside Adam, who’s still chatting up the dark-haired woman. No one appears impatient or underserved.
I grab a wine bottle off the bar cart waiting to be brought into the ballroom, push open the door to the stairwell, and head toward the roof-deck—the only place I’m guaranteed to be alone.
I’m not alone. The door to the roof-deck slams closed behind me, sending a waft of thick, drought-dry air my way. A woman standing in a pool of moonlight spins around. “Who’s there?”
There’s an edge to her voice, but without seeing her face, I can’t tell if she’s afraid or annoyed by my arrival. She leans into the shadows, and I step forward into the moonlight to meet her.
Recognition registers on her face at the same moment I feel a tiny thrill roll through me. Every bit of my strength goes into extinguishing it. Downstairs, she was a kindred spirit. Up here, she’s an interruption.
“Oh,” she breathes, relaxing into the word. “I’m sorry. I just needed some air. It’s ... stuffy down there.”
Stuffyis one word.Suffocatingis a better one.
“Unfortunately, we don’t allow guests up here,” I say. “There’s a gazebo to the left of the parking lot. If you go out the front, it’s on your—”
She wraps her arms around herself. “Can I just stay here? I really can’t go back in there.” Her voice dips low.
“It’s against hotel rules.” My hand grows clammy around the bottle. I don’t want to be the guy who sends this woman back to whatever she ran from. Especially not after I was the guy who sent his brother packing. But this town has a way of bringing out the worst in me.
The lines of her body go rigid, that soft exterior hardening into something with sharp edges. “Is it also against hotel rules to abandon your bartending post and get wasted on your guests’ alcohol?”
I suppress a smile. “Technically, yes.”
“Then I guess we both should go.” She lifts her chin, daring me to walk down those stairs, return to that demanding crowd.
“I guess so,” I say, drawing out the word and studying the determined set of her jaw. “Or ... we could both stay. I won’t tell if you won’t.”
She taps her nose with her finger. “I like the way you think.”
