Page 3 of Ruined By Protection
"Looks like you're about to get busy," a deep voice says.
I turn to find him—the man who'd been watching me—now seated at the bar. Up close he's even more striking. A well-groomed beard frames a jaw that could cut glass. His eyes are warm brown, almost amber in the dim lighting.
"Busy is good." I answer, setting a cocktail napkin in front of him. "What can I get you?"
"Macallan 18, neat." His voice has a slight roughness to it, like expensive whiskey poured over gravel.
As I reach for the bottle I notice his hands—strong with long fingers, a subtle tan offsetting the crisp white cuff of his shirt. There's a small tattoo on his wrist, peeking out when his sleeve rides up. A cross, simple and black. I slide him the glass.
He takes a sip, watching me over the rim. "Matteo."
It takes me a second to realize he's offering his name. "Hazel," I reply, tapping my name tag.
"Hazel," he repeats, like he's tasting it. "It suits you."
Before I can respond the corporate group descends on the bar, shouting for drinks. I hold up a finger to Matteo. "Duty calls."
CHAPTER 2
Matteo
Iwatch her move behind the bar, all efficiency and grace despite those ridiculous heels they undoubtedly make her wear. Hazel. Her name fits her—those eyes the color of amber whiskey, flecked with gold and green.
She handles the surge of corporate assholes smoothly, never losing her composure even when three of them shout orders simultaneously. Her smile remains fixed in place, professional but distant.
I sip my drink, savoring the burn as I observe her. My phone buzzes with a message from Damiano—details about Friday's meeting—but I silence it without looking away from her. Business can wait five minutes.
Women have always been simple for me. Uncomplicated. A physical release, nothing more. I learned early that attachment is a luxury I can't afford in my line of work. Emotions make you vulnerable. Vulnerability gets you killed.
I've perfected the art of temporary companionship. Beautiful women in high-end hotel rooms. Expensive dinners withdessert served in bed. Clear expectations established from the beginning. No false promises, no morning-after awkwardness, no strings that could become nooses.
They know what they're getting. I know what I'm giving. Everyone leaves satisfied.
It's a system that works. Clean. Efficient. Safe.
Hazel returns to my end of the bar after setting up the corporate boys with their first round. A light sheen of sweat glistens at her temple and she discreetly shifts her weight, easing pressure off one foot.
"Sorry about that," she says, tucking a strand of honey-blonde hair behind her ear. "Corporate happy hours are the worst. They think ordering an Old Fashioned makes them Don Draper."
I smile despite myself. "Let me guess—they also undertip and over explain how to make their drinks?"
"God, yes." Her eyes light up with genuine amusement. "One of them just told me he likes his Manhattan 'bold but approachable.'"
"Sounds like he's describing his LinkedIn profile."
Her laugh hits me—unguarded and real.
"You've got a good read on people," she says, wiping down the bar. "What do you do, Matteo?"
"Import-export," I answer automatically. The standard cover. "Logistics management."
"Sounds fascinating," she says with just enough sarcasm to make me smile again.
"It has its moments." I take another sip of whiskey. "Better than wrangling bold but approachable Manhattan guys."
Her smile fades slightly as one of the suits approaches the bar, waving his empty glass like a flag. "Duty calls again. Enjoy your whiskey."
Hazel
