Page 13 of Devil's Iris
His eyes were exactly this shade of green. Deep, intense, the kind of color that makes you forget how to breathe. I run my hand over the vest, and suddenly I’m right back in the police station, watching him flash that heart-melting smile.
I check myself out in the mirror. I look professional. Polished. So do the other girls. My gaze drops again to my vest, and I run a hand over it once more.
I wonder what Romero is doing right now.
Probably not thinking about some random woman he helped out pro bono at a police station. Why would he? I’m nobody special. I shake my head, trying to dislodge thoughts of him, but the bastard has been tenacious. He refuses to leave my mind. The past few days I’ve been tempted more than once to use that business card and call him under the guise of thankinghim for his help. Just to hear his voice one last time… and to see if he remembers me.
I shake my head again and look away from the mirror.Enough, Leni. Focus on the job.“Ready?” I ask the girls, and they nod.
We carefully fold the clothes we took off into the duffel bag, and I push it under the sink to grab later when it’s time to change back.
When we return to the drinks room, the guys are already there, helping the butler’s staff pour champagne into flutes. The girls and I step forward and arrange the glasses carefully onto the trays.
Once two dozen trays are filled up, we each lift one and file out of the room. The butler leads us down the hallway again, and we emerge in the middle of a large foyer dominated by a huge gold chandelier cascading from the ceiling like something out of a movie.
Don’t drop the tray. Don’t drop the tray.The mantra plays on repeat in my head as we walk. I can’t afford to make any mistakes tonight—accidental or otherwise. Not after Fred’s warning and the butler’s threats.
The butler stops in front of two imposing double doors and pushes them open. My lips part involuntarily at the sheer opulence of the ballroom. If the kitchen could fit three of my apartments, this place could easily swallow three kitchens.
It’s that huge.
A duo of musicians performs on stage, their violin and piano creating melodies so beautiful they almost bring me to tears. Guests in glittering gowns and designer suits float through the space, chatting and laughing in that demure way rich people do, as if the jaw-dropping chandeliers aren’t even worth noticing. There must be over two dozen of them. Just one of those monstrosities could set me up for life.
I draw a steady breath and follow the other servers in. The moment the butler claps, we disperse. I move quietly through the crowd, tray lifted high, doing my best to be invisible. Very quickly, my tray empties, and I slip out of the ballroom to refill it.
Back in the drinks room, another filled tray is already waiting, so I drop the empty one and pick up the full one, then head out again. By the third run, my body moves on autopilot—until I hear a laugh.
It’s crazy. I’ve never even heard Romero laugh, but somehow, that deep, low sound makes me think of him instantly. Goosebumps erupt all over my body, making my spine tingle as I search the crowd for him while still serving drinks.
Then I see him.
And almost immediately, he glances my way and our gazes collide.
Holy hell, he’s insanely hot. Did I actually think this god was into me? The smile on his face slowly fades as he takes me in, probably wondering what the hell I’m doing here in a server’s uniform.
I don’t even have time to be embarrassed about how he’s seeing me before a wall of flesh slams into me—one of the guests had suddenly stepped backward just as I moved forward.
Time slows to a crawl as I watch my tray flip in my direction, champagne arching through the air like liquid gold about to destroy everything.
No, no, no, NO.
Horror freezes my blood as the flutes tip towards my shirt, but my body moves on instinct. I wrap both hands around the tray, fighting gravity and momentum, making damn sure not to let a single glass hit the floor and shatter.
I succeed. Every flute stays on the tray, even as champagne soaks through my vest and shirt, the cold liquid shockingagainst my skin. But when I look up, searching for approval, for any sign that saving the glasses matters, one glance at the butler’s expression tells me he’s not impressed by this feat of coordination at all.
Fuck.
7
ROMERO
I watch her try to make a dignified exit from the ballroom, trailed by a scowling man who looks about ready to kill her. I don’t make a conscious decision to follow them, but my feet start moving in that direction anyway.
Someone calls my name behind me. Could be Remington, could be Julian. Frankly, I don’t give a fuck. Only one thought pulses in my head—protect her.
It’s fucking insane. I don’t even know this woman.
But something about her being helpless in that police station a few days ago, her desperate attempt to charm her way into getting my help, awakened instincts I thought were long dead inside me. And now, seeing the sheer horror on her face as those drinks spilled down her shirt has them roaring back in full force.
