Page 61 of Beneath the Blindfold

At that moment, Lily popped up wide-eyed from behind the bar’s counter. I hadn’t realized she’d been sweeping beneath the ice bin and overheard the whole thing.

Had she gone straight to Joseph, or had Noemi been the one to tell him?

I’d tried to play it off like it was no big deal, pretending I didn’t notice the awkward smile frozen on her face. I muttered an excuse and shuffled off, realizing what a creep I’d been.

The damage was done, and now I was going to pay for it, likely with my job.

When I reached the top of the stairs, I looked left through the open doorway into Joseph’s office. When I’d first started working at Dune, the room hadn’t been as nice as it was now. Back then, he’d owned multiple clubs and split his focus between them, but he’d sold the others and made this one his priority.

There was a fancy leather couch on one wall, facing the bookshelves that lined the opposite wall, and an oversized desk in the center. The office had a small balcony that allowed him to survey the dancefloor, but it was empty now and the French doors that led to it were closed.

He sat at his desk, staring so intently at the screen of his laptop that for a moment I considered turning around and heading back down the stairs. I could give the excuse that I didn’t want to disturb him.

But it’d only be delaying the inevitable. He’d summoned me up here.

There wasn’t any sign of Noemi or Lily, so . . . that was good, right? I raised my hand and rapped my knuckles on the side of the door frame.

Joseph’s gaze didn’t waver from the laptop screen. “Dylan,” he said and gestured to the couch. “Come in and shut the door.”

Fuck.

My heart rate climbed as I closed the door and plopped my guilty ass on the couch.

He shut the laptop and fixed his disapproving gaze on me, making me want to shrink back into the cushions and disappear. Over his shoulder, a picture of him and Noemi sat on the shelf, taunting me with their happy smiles.

They were an interesting couple.

He was—what? Twenty years older than she was? Both were good looking, but Noemi was conventionally beautiful. She was in her twenties, had blonde hair, a perfect figure, and a stunning face.

Joseph was over forty and attractive in an unusual way. The type of guy who pictures didn’t do justice because they couldn’t capture his energy. He was tall and slender, built like a swimmer with broad shoulders and very little body fat.

Even without a bulky frame, he radiated power. It didn’t come from his muscles, but from his dark eyes and the exacting looks they could deliver. I always felt a weird, intense desire to please him whenever he walked into a room.

The atmosphere of him was kind of dangerous. And exciting. I understood what Noemi saw in him, plus, she struck me very much as a people pleaser.

Joseph’s gaze slid down me as if he were conducting a full evaluation. He took in my t-shirt and jeans, maybe noting the toned shape of my arms before moving on to my waist and legs. It was like he wanted to take stock of the younger man who’d hit on his girlfriend and see how I measured up to him.

“I need to ask you something,” he said finally, leaning back in his desk chair and attempting to look conversational, although there was nothing casual about it. He was one-hundred-percent in command.

“Yeah?” I fought to keep my tone natural. “Go for it.”

“When you flirt with the male-presenting customers,” he said, “is that just an act? A way to increase your tips?”

His question caught me off guard. “What?”

“You only flirt with the customers. Not the male bartenders.”

“Because we work together.”

His eyebrow arched, but I couldn’t tell if my answer caused displeasure or satisfaction. “Is that the reason? I’ve noticed you’re extra friendly with some of the girls you work with.”

Okay, he had a point.

I lifted one shoulder in surrender. “Yeah.” I swallowed a breath. “Look, I was out of line earlier with Noemi, and I’m—”

His hand came up, cutting me off. “This isn’t about that.” His face skewed. “Well, it’s a little bit about that, but we’ll get there in a minute. I need you to answer me first, Dylan. When you flirt with other guys, is it an act, or is it,” he searched for the right word, “genuine?”

My knee-jerk response was to say my sexuality was none of his business—but the desire dissipated as fast as it had arrived. The way he’d asked his question . . . had I imagined the hopeful tone buried inside the word?

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