Page 14 of Go Back to December

When I flick on the lamp and pull out my work, I shudder. I’d chosen the yarn for the scarf to complement Craig’s brown leather flight jacket. In the aftermath of my dream, my hands quake at the similarity between the color and Baz’s green eye.

I knit until my fingers burn and my neck cramps and I’ve convinced myself that the finished scarf has nothing to do with him.

Chapter Four

When the elevator doors open to the roof gallery, three Money Honeys guard the check-in table.

“Can I help you?” asks a woman in a navy velvet tuxedo. She assesses the giant bag of ice slung over my shoulder. I look like Santa.

If Santa were a barkeep.

“I’m Melody Johnson.”

“Oh, Melody from downstairs.”

It’s a harmless comment. There’s no Money Honey malice behind it. But the distinction between this glittering party and my work at the first-floor café still stings.

As I shift the bag of ice that’s turning my shoulder numb, I will my ego to do the same. “They said they were low on ice.”

“The bar’s outside. At the back.”

The Blackhart & Steele building’s roof garden doesn’t have a spectacular view. It’s on a lower floor, so it’s surrounded by the other buildings rather than the skyline. But it was one of the first in the city to have a living wall of plants, which is tended, even in the winter. I try not to draw a comparison to the jungle mural that haunted my sleep.

Tonight, they’ve gone to the extraordinary expense of canopying the roof and heating the tent. There are fairy lights and evergreens, and it’s a rather forced, but not entirely unsuccessful attempt to make a soulless business function inviting.

Black-clad waiters stand at attention at the outskirts of the deck, waiting for the guests to arrive so they can sling out hors d’oeuvres, clear half-empty glasses to push people to order more from the bar. It feels like a minute ago that I was one of them, working double shifts for extra holiday pay. Hell, I have the same black apron downstairs at the café.

I trudge over to the bar and unload my sack. With the absence of the cold weight on my shoulder, my skin burns.

The guy on duty works for the café’s beverage distributor. He gives me a flustered nod as he rushes to unpack crates of glassware, and I tamp down my longing to be in that safe space behind the bar. He has a clear and defined purpose here. I’d trade places with him in a heartbeat if it meant I could forget about the fact that my future—and that of fifteen other people—is riding on my performance at this party.

“Only one of you tonight?” I ask.

“My coworker is stranded. They’ve closed the downtown exit. Huge traffic jam.”

Money Honeys filter onto the deck. They linger along its periphery, playing a game of chicken over who will be the first to approach the bar. They can’t appear overly eager to the Very Important Assholes who may be watching.

At the rate the bartender’s going, we’ll all be waiting hours for a drink, and we won’t survive it. “I’ll help you unload.”

He tosses me a grateful grin along with his thanks as the band begins playing. It’s classic jazz carols no one will have any interest in dancing to, which is likely a risk mitigation strategy against fraternization. After the partner scandals, Blackhart & Steele adopted a strict policy on office romances. Any couple who pursue a relationship must disclose it to the leadership team.

In gratitude for my help, the bartender offers me the first pour of champagne. He hands me the flute, cloudy with condensation from the cold wine, and peruses my black wrap dress. It’s a vintage luxury brand, a jackpot thrift store find that fits, no matter where my weight fluctuates. My appearance is too understated for anyone to mistake me for Money, but with my makeup fully done and heeled boots granting me a few extra inches, I pass muster.

His eyes linger on my neckline. I’d like to think they’re captivated by the pendant hanging at my throat, a delicate silver duplicate of Craig’s dog-tags produced by a talented military spouse. But his gaze dips further down, to the cross point where black silk wraps my breasts.

“Hey, I hope you don’t mind my saying,” he grins, “you clean up well.”

With alcohol visibly in the perimeter, the Money Honeys, who’ve been circling the bar like nervous cheetahs, stop feigning patience. They jolt to the bar, providing me with a reprieve from the clever words that aren’t springing to my mouth to respond to the bartender’s opening line.

As pickups go, it’s not a bad one, so why doesn’t it work for me? Why can’t I relax and indulge in the moment? This guy’s cute enough, I’m certainly lonely enough, and flirting would be a fantastic distraction from my pricking nerves.

My response stalls for the same familiar reason: I don’t see the point of starting something I don’t intend to finish.

The guy’s mouth quirks with a follow-up, but as he glances behind me, his cocky smile dashes away faster than reindeer off a rooftop.

I turn. Baz is stalking toward us. Like the goddamn king of the jungle.

His cold gaze burns along the length of the deck. He’s got some fucking gall to eye me like I’m trespassing here, when he’s spent the last few days callously dismantling my business.