Page 40 of Beauty and Kaos

I laugh. “I said fun.”

“My work is fun. Sometimes. My father wants me to babysit the Sandbar to ensure everything runs smoothly, which is why I’m so invested in all aspects of the restaurant. Running food and dealing with angry customers isn’t fun, but the benefits far outweigh it. The Aurora is fun. It’s elite and dangerous and decadent.”

“I’m intrigued,” I admit.

“You should be. It’s invite only.”

“So invite me.”

He smiles. “Soon. Let’s see how tomorrow goes. Endgame, I want you to come cocktail for me. The pay is generous, and the tips are better. I’m testing you tomorrow. No training, you’re onthe floor with a section. I need to know that you can learn quick and adapt. High volume, and quality customer service. I haven’t seen anything from you so far to contradict that.”

I nod. “I’m always game for a challenge.”

“Good,” he says, his eyes drifting to my lips, then lower. “You know what else you should be game for?” He smiles. “A towel.”

“I tried to warn you. I literally just stepped out of a muddy mosh pit and into your truck.”

“My room is the first door on the left. Grab a shower if you want, I’ll set some clothes out on the bed for you.”

My mouth drops open. “Maybe I’m comfortable in my dirt.”

“And maybe I can’t let you sit on the furniture until you change.”

I look him squarely in the eyes, daring him to say more, then sit on the balcony floor at his feet. I down the remaining liquid in my glass in one gulp, then hand it to him.

“You want to see if I can adapt? This is me adapting. I don’t need to sit on your fifteen thousand dollar Italian leather sofa in order to have a good time.”

Evan laughs. He takes my glass, then wraps his hand around my arm and pulls me back up. I glare at him.

“It’s a thirty thousand dollar Italian leather sofa. But point made.”

I shake my head. “Fine. But if the towels are any less than seven hundred thread count, I’m out of here.”

“You won’t be disappointed.”

I walk away from him, back across the balcony, and through the large open doors. I follow the marble hallway down to the left, and into his room. I could easily fit my entire apartmentinside, with space to spare. Impeccably decorated, dark, and modern, dominated by an enormous bed. More windows all around the room with an amazing view of the town down below.

I walk to the bed, and trail my fingers across the impossibly soft sheets. What I wouldn’t give to roll around in this bed. Just not with him.

Shutting the bathroom door, I release a sigh. Every surface is so clean it shines. The space is large and open, with a glass area along the wall for the shower, and a long marble counter with glass vessel sinks. More floor-to-ceiling windows along the back, with a large circular ceramic tub in the middle. I’ve never seen a circular tub.

I can feel the alcohol warring with my common sense and best intentions. I glance around, feeling guilty, then remember I’m a poor housekeeper with no car living in a broken motel room with only the cash in my pocket… and I pull off my shirt.

I turn on the faucet in the shower, and the steam gradually starts to fill the room as I walk around and explore. I pull open cabinets and drawers, wondering if she was in here. If she bathed in this tub. If she stood in that shower, with him. I look everywhere, but she’s not here.

I drop the rest of my clothes into a pile on the floor, and slide beneath the delicious warmth of the shower spray. I can feel the layers begin to melt off me. The mud and the rain. The cold beach showers. The infinite humidity of Florida in general, sticky with sweat and salt.

I soap up and wash my hair, then step back out. Evan was right about the towels. I wrap one around me, and it feels like a soft, warm hug. Then I walk back out into the bedroom. I hearhim in the kitchen, and spot a pile of clothes on the bed. I frown.

“These are your clothes,” I shout across the room.

“You don’t live here,” he replies with a chuckle.

I roll my eyes, then drop the towel on the floor. I pull on a white tank undershirt and plaid sleep pants, then pad back over to the bathroom counter for a hairbrush. Looking into the mirror, I brush out my hair and consider whether I should put my wet underwear back on. Without a bra, my bare breasts press against the thin white fabric of the shirt, showing the outline of my darkened areoles and the barbells in each of my nipples.

I know I’m playing with fire, and I need to set boundaries. But how far should I go for answers? What will it take?

Evan appears in the doorway and leans casually against the frame, crossing his arms across his chest. His eyes travel over me appreciatively as a slow smile lifts at his lips.

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