Page 39 of Ugly Beautiful Scars

"A close friend of mine is celebrating her birthday tonight. She always reserves this exact spot. It's kind of her tradition. But there was a mix-up." I let my smile fade slightly, adding a touch of concern. "She's been going through a really tough time, and I was hoping to make tonight special for her."

Fuck, I'm laying it on thick. Surprised I didn't mention a dead grandma.

The mother's expression softens first. Bingo.

"Would you be willing to switch to another table?" I continue, then quickly add, "I'd be happy to cover your entire meal as thanks for your generosity. Whatever you'd like. Appetizers, desserts, the works. My treat."

The family exchanges a look again. The mother, who I've clearly won over, whispers something to her husband. He shrugs and then nods slowly. "I don't see why not. Our food's not here yet, so it's fine."

I exhale, happy I didn't have to kill grandma to make this happen. "Thank you. Seriously, you have no idea how much this means to me."

My words create a strange resonance in my chest because helping Londyn feel comfortable does mean something to me.

Within minutes, a server has guided the family to another table. It's arguably better since it's closer to restaurant's central fountain. I intercept the hostess and explain that my friend and her date will be arriving shortly for this specific booth. Then I make my way to the bar, slide onto a stool with a clear view of both the entrance and Londyn's reserved spot, and hand my credit card to the bartender.

"Whatever that family orders," I tell him, nodding toward their new table. "And I'll start with water."

He nods, looking slightly impressed by the gesture. If he only knew how happy I am to spend my money on others.

After discreetly adjusting my bulletproof vest under my clothes, I pull out my phone and text Londyn.

Me:Problem solved. Your booth awaits.

Through the front windows, I can see her reading the message before her eyes widen. She's typing a response furiously when a man approaches her.

Chapter 13

SEAN

THE MAN WHO APPROACHES LONDYN has thick wavy hair, a confident smile, and a gray suit. Londyn stuffs her phone in her purse, unable to finish her message to me.

"Mike," I say into my lapel, keeping my voice low. "That her date?"

There's a brief pause. "Yeah. She seems nervous but she greeted him. They're heading in now."

The bartender arrives with my water, which is perfect timing. Now I can wrap my fingers around the glass and try to break it as I watch Londyn smile at this stranger.

Marcus Rivera. Thirty-two years old. Credit Analyst. Owns a condo in SoHo. Has a Golden Retriever. His background check came back clean with no criminal history, just like Mike told Londyn, but he does have one unpaid parking ticket. That doesn't sit right with me. I get it if you're struggling financially and can't pay. That's forgivable. But Mr. Rivera comes from a wealthy family. And he still didn't pay his ticket? That's douchebag behavior.

He gestures broadly over her body, like he might be complimenting her dress, and she blushes with a slight duck of her head. The restaurant door swings open, and suddenly she's inside, moving through the space like a brilliant black flame.

The bar's strategic positioning is perfect; the classic mirror behind the bottles gives me sight lines to nearly the entire restaurant without having to crane my neck like some obvious creeper. I order a virgin mojito and antipasto, establishing my cover as Just Another Solo Diner.

The hostess leads Londyn and her date to the correct booth, and I watch Londyn's shoulders visibly relax when she sits. Her neck also elongates as if the space between her vertebra just opened. Her lips soften into a beautiful smile.

I sip my water and feel my own shoulders lowering. She looks happy with the booth. Good. Worth the trouble.

Her date adjusts his suit jacket, and I automatically catalog details: expensive watch (trying too hard), posture that suggests he works out but probably just uses machines (functionalstrength: minimal), pricey haircut that he honestly could've been done at home with sharp scissors (priorities questionable).

"Nice looking dude," Mike comments through my earpiece.

I don't respond, just frown at my water. Nice looking? The guy's nose is crooked, probably broken once and never set properly. His jacket is at least a half-size too small across the shoulders—off-the-rack masquerading as tailored. And that smile has too many teeth, like a shark circling chum.

What does she see in this guy?

I force my gaze away, studying the framed black and white photos of supposed 'Old Country' scenes that are probably just stock images.Focus on the job, not the client's personal life.

The bartender slides my mocktail and antipasto across the bartop. "Game's on if you're interested," he says, nodding toward a small TV tucked in the corner.

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