Page 196 of Swallow Your Sorries

Stassi’s eyes grow wide, her lips falling open as she stares at Hale’s profile, but he’s looking at me. “While I’m working on that, mix up a Whiskey Sour, Manhattan, and a Negroni. They’re popular. Can you handle all of those?”

“Can Rie Rie?” I ask pointedly. Thank goodness for Aria’s most popular drink list. I could sneak on my phone and double-check the Negroni recipe while he was busy visually tracing the outline of Stassi’s lips, breasts and the curve of her neck.

“How good are you with design?” he asks once he’s downed half of his first drink and Stassi pouts into her Shirley Temple.

“I resurfaced the wooden floor of my old ballet studio because we couldn’t afford to have it done professionally. It wasn’t too hard.” I eye the wooden floor with its deep gouges. “We can get some wood filler and a buffer to resurface the floors, then varnish and seal them. I’d advise you to go for a dark colour to hide all the stains that are probably permanent at this point. As for the wallpaper, we’ll have to apply some hot water solutions to reactivate the adhesive and pray it comes off smoothly. Depending on the condition of the walls underneath, you may just want to apply a new layer rather than paint it.”

“Dragonflies!” Stassi pipes up. “You should put up some dragonfly wallpaper. A really dark one.”

“If the colour’s deep enough, it’ll help to make the place a bit darker overall. It’ll be harder to see the imperfections that way, plus it’ll set the mood better,” I say, blinking at the harsh sunlight streaking through the front window.

“Like a deep hunter green. Do you have uniforms for the waitresses yet?” Stassi asks.

Hale shakes his head and finishes his drink before reaching for the Whiskey Sour.

I shiver at the sight of him throwing it back so easily. I learned my lesson the other night after I’d passed out after Aria. I’d woken up in a puddle of my own vomit the next morning and I swore that I’dnevermix dark and light liquor together in my stomach ever again.

“The quote from the seamstress was insane, though I’m sure it’s worth it. I like the vintage corset look.”

“That’s the vibe Elle went for. Show him yours,” Stassi says, shaking a hand at me. “It’s not the best quality, but in low lighting, it’ll probably suffice for the first few weeks while you work with the seamstress.”

Self-consciously, I slip the coat from my shoulders and Hale’s big gulp as he swallows half the whiskey sour lets me know that he approves.

“Damn.”

“It was less than thirty on sale. We can go back to see how many more they have left, plus that sage green will go great with the hunter green wallpaper,” Stassi adds.

Hale eyes me over the rim of his cup. “Gant would behead me.” But his tone is playful, mischievous.

“Gant won’t care,” I lie, grabbing the ingredients for the Negroni and averting my eyes from Hale’s. “The club isn’t his territory like Beaulieu. It has nothing to do with him.”

“You really don’t get it,” Hale says, sucking on the orange rind and Stassi watches his lips like a vulture. “Everything about you has to do with Gant.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Not anymore. Soon Gant won’t want anything else to do with me.

“Yes, it does.If I had a woman, I’d feel the same way. Everything she does concerns me.”

“I’m not Gant’s woman.” I can’t be. “I’m not even his friend.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re wrapped around his brain and seeing you here in that leotard where other guys can see you will tighten that grip and give him a fucking aneurysm. You don’t want to see him when he explodes.”

“You’d care that much if it was one of your girls?” Stassi asks quietly. “Working at a bar?”

One of his girls?I’d heard that Hale was a ladies’ man, but I hadn’t witnessed it much.

“No,” he says firmly. “Not one of my girls.My girl. My only girl.”

Stassi licks her lips and nods, breaking his intense eye contact to settle her gaze on the drink she was so disinterested in before. Now, she seems fascinated by it.

He’d have a fucking aneurysm.

Maybe it’ll be the perfect wake-up call that he needs to realise that I have another life outside of Beaulieu that he can’t control. That he has no right or access to. And neither do I to his. To his blue-blooded circle that Hale knows all about.

“So?” I ask Hale when he’s finished his Negroni. “How do I compare to Rie Rie?”

“No one can compare to Rie Rie,” Hale says.

“Damn straight,” she says, emerging from the back with a tray of apparently cleaned glasses. They look filthier than the ones on the shelf.

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