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But it’s her.
I glance back at the sheet with details of her as an Upper Tier member.
She was invited nearly a year ago but has never used the club.
Not once.
“Hmmm,” I muse, now curious about what happened to her to warrant an invite. She’s never talked about her past relationships, but clearly, she must have been cheated on.
I'm startled by the scent of fresh cologne. Before I can turn around, a hand gently lands on my elbow.
“Everything okay, Lily?” Cal whispers. His usually playful eyes now radiate concern, which doesn't help ease the anxieties I had been able to forget momentarily.
My cheeks flush and the memory of London’s words haunt my mind.
“Possibly … probably.”
He’d been up here last night. He’d checked to make sure things were secure and heard us …
“Have you seen London?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady and the embarrassment from my tone.
Cal’s eyes hold mine for a moment longer than is comfortable. “He's around, probably busy with last-minute preparations. You know how he gets.”
I nod, though his words do little to assure me. London hasn’t been up here at all. What last-minute preparations would take him this long?
“I’ve already done my rounds,” Cal continues. “So, Myles sent me up to see if you needed any help.”
His words surprise me. “London didn't send you?”
Cal shakes his head, a flicker of something I can't quite decipher crossing his features. "No, it was Myles. She figured you could use an extra pair of hands with Saint ...occupied."
His choice of words feels pointed, like there's something he's not saying. My worry intensifies and my stomach clenches in its wake. "Is he okay?"
Cal hesitates, then offers a comforting smile. “He's London. Always trying to be a saint, you know.” He winks at me and I get his double-meaning. “He’s always in his head a bit more than necessary. But, it's probably best if you two talk when you get a chance.”
“Talk about what?” The raw edge in my voice surprises even me.
Cal holds up his hands defensively. “Hey, I’m just here to help.”
“Lily, do you want the strawberries cut in half and placed on the edge of the glass for the signature drink? Or inside the cocktail,” Stefanie, one of the servers, asks, walking over to us and holding up a mock drink.
I blink hard. “Ummm.”
“Try slicing it three or four times, then fan them out across the edge of the glass. Like this,” Cal offers, taking over and showing her what he means.
I stand back, watching the two of them. It's a helpful distraction, but the weight of London's absence remains, pressing down on me, and Cal's words echo in my mind.
We need to talk.
God, I’ve messed things up.
He kept talking about not wanting to rushme. And here, I was the one rushinghim.
Despite the internal turmoil, the professional in me pushes through. Directing the staff, ensuring the setup is immaculate. Each time a staff member calls for my attention, a part of me wishes the event would be over with already so I can hunt London down.
Cal’s words are a haunting refrain, and unsettlingly vague.
What did he know? What had London told him?
