Page 52 of There Are No Saints

“I told you I could swing it for a few weeks . . .” Joanna says, her elegant features screwed in a scowl.

“I know. And thank you—but I have it now.”

Frank rips open the envelope, pulling out the check. “TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I know,” I say, blushing. “Finally getting lucky.”

“It’s not luck,” Joanna says. “You’re talented.”

Erin yanks the check out of Frank’s hand so she can ogle it, too.

“Is he . . . into you?” she says.

“Erin!” Joanna chastises her.

“No!” I shake my head vehemently.

“How do you know?” Frank says.

“Trust me, Blackwell doesn’t like me. In fact, he might hate my guts.” I shiver, remembering the coldness of his eyes . . . dark, empty space. No sign of life.

“Then why does he keep helping you?” Erin says.

I bite my lip, a little too hard. “I really don’t know.”

* * *

Three hours later,I’m deep in the brunch shift, hauling out platters of sweet potato hash and artfully arranged avocado toast, when Cole Blackwell sits down at one of my tables.

I almost drop my tray of mimosas.

Cole cuts such a striking figure that almost everyone at the sidewalk tables stares at him. Every woman in a hundred-yard radius is suddenly compelled to smooth their hair and check their lip gloss. Even my boss Arthur squints and frowns, wondering if somebody famous just sat down.

Cole has that look of effortless celebrity, like certain models and rock stars. Tall, lean, and elegantly dressed in clothes that you know cost five figures. It’s his careless arrogance that really tops it off. Like you could get hit by a bus right in front of him and he wouldn’t even notice.

He’s also drop-dead gorgeous. So stunning that it only increases my distrust of him. Nobody that beautiful can be good, it’s impossible. Power corrupts and beauty warps the mind.

He looks even more handsome out in the open, the gray light glowing gently on his pallid skin, his dark hair wind-tossed, and the collar of his jacket turned up against that razor-sharp jawline.

He saw me long before I saw him. He’s already smirking, his dark eyes glittering with malice.

“Bring me one of those mimosas,” he orders.

I think I hate him. A wave of fury surges inside of me at the sight of his haughty face.

“You’re supposed to wait for the hostess to seat you,” I mutter.

“I’m sure you can handle one more table.”

“Here you go.” Ungraciously, I thrust a menu into his hands.

When I return a few minutes later with his drink, he says, “I want you to eat with me.”

“I can’t. I’m in the middle of a shift.”

“Bring me a coffee then, and I’ll wait.”

“No,” I snap. “You can’t sit here that long.”

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