Page 6 of Finding Haven
His brows pinch together at my words, his dark gaze focused on his nearly empty glass. He’s quiet for so long that I almost don’t think he’s going to answer me. Maybe he doesn’t want to talk, and that’s fine. Not everyone enjoys talking to new people as much as I do. Should I tell him that I hope he has a good night and try to find another seat? Or maybe I should apologize for trying to talk to him in the first place.No, that would be weird.I should probably just sit here and enjoy my drink in silence.
“I had a disgruntled hotel guest that I needed to handle.” The rasp of his voice takes me by surprise. I turn my head to look at him, but his eyes haven’t left the glass in front of him. There’s only a sip or two left of the amber-colored alcohol, but he’s staring at it as though it’s personally offended him. He seems to be battling some kind of internal war with himself.
If he had a troubling guest to deal with, then I suppose he works here at the hotel. Maybe he’s some kind of manager. That’s probably why he doesn’t seem to want to talk to me. Though if he’s working and can’t socialize, he probably shouldn’t be drinking, either. “I hope everything’s alright,” I tell him softly.
I watch as he pushes his glass away, his gaze finally shifting to meet mine. “It is now,” he says. At this angle, with the way the bar lights are illuminating his face, I can see that his eyes aren’t as dark as I’d been thinking. They’re a stunning shade of brown, unlike any I’ve seen before. Not as dark as melted chocolate, but not quite as light as honey, either.
The weight of his words settles over me, and my thighs clench at the implication. I get the sense that this man doesn’t let very many people in. His body posture is cold and guarded, while his eyes hold more warmth than a raging fire.I want to burn beneath his gaze.Thethought catches me off-guard, and I mentally clear the image from my mind. Taking another sip of the chilled champagne gives me a chance to form a coherent sentence. I finally ask, “So, what is it that you do here?”
“Head of security.” His response is clipped. His brows pinch together once more before he clears his throat and says, “I oversee all security operations here at the Elysian. It’s my job to make sure everyone is safe.”
Silence sits between us, but it’s not uncomfortable. In fact, I feel like I could sit beside this man for hours without a single word being exchanged, and I’d still be far more comfortable with him than I was with that poor excuse of a date.
“What do you do?” he asks. It’s a natural response considering I’d practically asked him the same thing. I don’t know what answer to give him though. I’m definitely not going to tell a hot-as-sin stranger that I recently started working as a camgirl on Frisk. I’m not ashamed of taking that route to make ends meet, but I also don’t think many people would be accepting of that job. Not that I necessarily need this guy to be accepting of anything about me or my life. I don’t know him, and he doesn’t know me.
Despite the deep feeling in my chest pulling me towards him, we don’t owe each other anything.
I guess the easier answer would be to tell him that I work at a bakery, but then he would probably ask what my favorite thing to bake is, and I’d have to tell him that I don’t actually bake anything at the bakery. The owner is a bit of a control freak and won’t let me go anywhere near her recipes. She’s not rude about it; it’s just a clear line in the sand. If I tell him that I’m a photographer who’s working on specializing in boudoir, will he be a creep and ask to see my work? Or worse. . . What ifhe volunteers to be my assistant for a shoot? I swear I’ve heard that line from men more times than I care to count, and it never fails to throw a red flag up in my mind.
“I’m sorta all over the place,” I say with a laugh. It’s not really an answer, but maybe he’ll accept it for the nonanswer it is so that we can move on from this topic. “I tend to get bored easily and end up trying out various side hustles.” His eyes flick back to me as I continue to ramble. “The past year or so, I’ve been working as a photographer, and I love it more than anything else I’ve ever done.”
So much for moving on from this topic, Quinn.
I have no idea why I’m telling him all of this, but I’ve never pretended to be a closed book. I guess it’s my way of figuring out my compatibility with someone. If they take all the information I give them in stride and don’t flinch, they will have found themselves a new friend for life. If they react with even a hint of judgement, I’m out. My life is crazy enough as it is. I don’t have time for people who aren’t going to stick around and put forth the same amount of effort as me.
Feeling the need to quiet my brain, or at least my mouth, I reach for the glass of champagne and take another sip. I really need to eat something with that pre-bolus of insulin on board, but I can’t afford much more than the drink I’ve already ordered. This place is so far out of my price range. I only agreed to this spot for my date because I was under the impression that he’d be paying for dinner. I didn’t expect him to run for the hills while I was in the bathroom.
I also never anticipated running into a charming stranger at the bar. But it looks like this night is full of surprises.
4
Zack
Thewomansittingbesideme at the bar is an anomaly. I expected her to be upset when she emerged from the restroom and discovered the man she had been with was gone. Since she sat down, I haven’t sensed even the slightest bit of anger. She seems far more alive now than she did when she had been stuck with that asshole, and there’s an energy radiating off of her that makes me want to shift closer, to keep her talking so that I can absorb some of it.
The man, Jeremy Morris, is officially on my radar. I’ll be looking into him as soon as I make it home tonight. I didn’t give him a chance to explain himself, and quite frankly, I don’t give a shit what he had to say. No excuse he came up with would have warrantedhim attempting to drug his date. And I have no doubt that’s exactly what he was planning on doing, especially after Myles, the bartender, confirmed that the guy had been pressuring this woman to order a drink.
I’m assuming she felt the vibe was off with him, given she had no problem ordering a drink as soon as she sat down at the bar. She doesn’t seem to be the shy type like I’d thought she would be. She wasn’t deterred by my short responses either. If anything, they seemed to only spur her on more. I gave her a brief description of what I do for a living, and she dove into a five minute tangent about the different jobs she’s had and how she gets bored if she’s stuck doing the same thing for too long.
Her response was endearing, and that’s not a feeling I need to deal with right now. I don’t have the time or the desire to get involved with anyone. My heart was darkened a long time ago and I’m not even sure the fucking thing still works. This woman intrigues me because she’s unlike anyone I’ve ever met before, and that’s all. That’s where my interest ends. It has to.
Silence stretches between us as she sips her drink, and I realize it’s my turn to say something. It’s been a long time since I’ve sat and had a conversation with someone just for the hell of it. I’m admittedly a bit rusty.
“It sounds like you’ve figured out what you’re passionate about. You should pursue that.” Here I go again with the clipped responses. Why does it feel like I’m being asked to do the impossible when all I’m trying to do is talk to this woman who seems to shine far too bright for the dark world around us? “Life is too short to waste time not doing what you love.” It’s the best answer I can muster. I wish I’d been told the same thing when I was younger.
When I joined the Hartridge Police Department, I was sure I’d found what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. I’d only ever seen the job from the outside, but my father and grandfather both seemed content with their careers. I assumed that meant I would be as well. I didn’t expect the days to be so heavy, or to carry the burden of every call gone wrong for the rest of my life. I sure as fuck didn’t expect to lose my best friend in a tragic accident while he tried to save the life of a man who didn’t want to be saved.
“You sound like you’re speaking from experience.” I glance at her as her sweet voice pulls me from my wandering thoughts. Her body is turned toward me, her curves on display thanks to the jeans hugging her legs and the top that dips low enough to show off a hint of cleavage. My cock thickens at the idea of seeing what’s beneath the layers of clothing. I have no idea how old this woman is, other than she’s of legal drinking age. It almost feels crude to be picturing her in that way after the night she’s had.
“You could say that.” Something about this woman has me wanting to divulge all of my secrets and let my demons out, but the shit I’ve been through isn’t a conversation to be had with a stranger. The weight doesn’t belong on anyone’s shoulders but mine.
Three loud beeps chime in succession, pulling her attention away as she reaches for her phone. She mutters a curse under her breath as she swipes away some kind of alert from her screen. It’s none of my business what she’s got going on. I turn away and signal for Myles’s attention. The least I can do is pay for this woman’s drink after I all but forced her dateoff the premises.
She moves to stand and begins to pull out her wallet. I cover her hand with mine before she can get it out of her purse. Electricity crackles across my skin at the contact. “It’s on me,” I tell her, trying to force my voice to come out a little softer than the harsh, clipped tone it typically emanates.
Her eyes fall to my hand on hers and then move to meet mine. “Thank you,” she says. Her cheeks turn a beautiful shade of pink as she releases her wallet and gifts me with that sun-rivaling smile I’d glimpsed earlier. “It was really nice talking to you, um…” She pauses for a moment, her nose scrunching at the bridge. I bite the inside of my cheek to fight back the smile threatening to spread across my face. “I just realized I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s Zack.” And there I go again with the clipped responses. Guess the whole conversation ability was short-lived. I can’t recall the last time I put effort into having a conversation with a woman. On the rare nights when I’m in need of company, putting on the charm and flirting just enough to get a woman to join me in a room upstairs doesn’t require much. But something aboutthiswoman in particular has my mind in a disoriented mess.
