Page 5 of Sweet Escape

The little voice comes from somewhere in the depths of my mind, telling me that I’m already here, stationed at the bar until we close for the night. And that once we close, I would just be heading to bed. No responsibilities or fires to put out until tomorrow morning.

It couldn’t hurt to take a tiny break. Give myself a night of something good to balance out all the bad. Maybe have some fun for the first time in far too long.

“Told you I’d scandalize you,” she teases. “Though I’ll be honest, it’s fun watching your thoughts skip across your face and wondering if I’m guessing them correctly.”

My lips tilt up and I lean even closer, my own voice dipping low. “I doubt you know the things I was thinking about. MaybeIwould have scandalizedyou.”

She laughs. “There’s not much that does that anymore, I promise you.”

I lick my lips, her eyes tracking the movement, and I can tell she’s not lying.

“Let me check in with the other customers,” I tell her, keeping my voice low. “Then I want to hear at least one story from that nightclub you worked at. If you say working there scandalized you, I can only imagine the things you’ve seen.”

Her smile widens, and her fingers tap gently on the base of her glass.

“Sounds like a plan.”

I try to make quick work of it, stopping at each taken seat at the wine bar and offering top-ups and wine lists and beverage suggestions.

Normally I don’t mind the monotony of it. If anything, in the past, I’ve wished I could be the only person pouring because I know that I’m the most dedicated to making the sale, every single time.

But I find myself breezing through it, uninterested in closing the deal on a second—or third, or fourth—glass. And it only takes me about ten minutes to get through the five or six other customers.

After closing out a tab and leaving a receipt and a pen with the elderly couple at the opposite end, I’m finally able to make my way back to ...

“What was your name?” I ask her, setting an empty wineglass in the sink and tucking a rag into my back pocket.

“Vivian.”

It suits her. Something both refined and wild. Like she seems to be.

“Well, Vivian,” I say, extending a hand. She slips hers into mine, and I enjoy the way her skin feels warm and smooth against my palm. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Memphis.”

I wait for the inevitable question. The oneeveryoneasks when they hear my name.

Like the city?

It can be annoying sometimes, but I’ve gotten used to it over the years.

Besides, my mother picked my name. Apparently, she and my father argued about it for months before he finally relented. It’s one of the few things I have left of her, and that’s enough for it to be important.

Only, Vivian doesn’t say what I think she’s going to say.

In fact, she doesn’t say anything at all.

Instead, I see a sour expression flicker across her face, like she tasted something bitter and unpleasant. All traces of the flirtatious vixen are wiped away, replaced by a look that can only be described as ... disappointed.

Then she slowly pulls her hand from mine and laughs, though there isn’t any humor in it.

“Why am I not surprised?” she says, reaching out and swirling her wine in her glass. “Of courseyouwould be Memphis.”

I furrow my brows in confusion, unsure what she means. It’s like she’s thinking out loud rather than speaking to me.

“Because that’s my luck, right? You couldn’t be anyone else? Or be you, but not be”—her hand comes out, and she gestures to me where I stand—“all of that.”

I blink a few times, completely lost.

“I’m sorry, did I miss something?” I ask, keeping my tone even.

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