Page 39 of Mr. Wilde

My hands flex at my sides, every nerve in me screaming to reach for her. To grasp her arms and tell her I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. To apologize for that wounded look on her face.

But the damage is already done.

“I’m so sorry,” she blurts. “I had no right. I was just excited about the possibility of working on the things I’m studying now, and I lost my head. It’ll never happen again.” Her voice quivers. It’s fucking with my head. She’s already turning away, retreating from me.

And as much as I’m yearning to do anything else, I let her go. I watch her weave back into the crowd, pink hair disappearing between bodies, taking the air from my lungs with her.

People are staring now. Subtle glances. The kind that linger just long enough to sting.

That’s when I feel it. Not her presence. But Gianni’s.

I look up to find him standing near the bar, arms crossed, expression dark.

Fuck.

I stay frozen in place, jaw tight, chest throbbing under the weight of my careless behavior. I don’t move. I simply stare at the empty space where she once stood, like my body is still waiting for her to come back.

The last time a blonde disappeared from my life, it nearly destroyed me. The last woman who mattered to me. Now this one just walked out of it.

I don’t chase her. I don’t call out. I merely stand there, staring at the space she left behind. Feeling out of control. Again.

I hate being out of control.

I haven’t allowed myself to feel anything for anyone since the day she vanished from my life. So why is this near stranger walking away causing me to feel so unhinged?

The last time I lost someone, it wasn’t my fault. Am I feeling this way because deep down I know I need to find a way to make this right?

None of this between us makes any sense. But there’s no arguing that I hurt her. And whatever is happening here deserves at least as much attention as hacking into Frank’s latest fixation’s criminal history and social media accounts to verify she doesn’t have an agenda.

I need to get to the bottom of what this is between us. Force myself to consider if this could be some pro bono working relationship here, since I can’t allow it to be more. Something is niggling at me that this girl is in my life for a reason. I can’t continue to fuck this up.

Because if she is, and I don’t make this right, I’ll have no one to blame but me.

15

CASSIDY

Lala claps her hands twice, sharp and efficient. “All right, girls. Quick huddle before the doors open tonight.”

We gather near the bar, chatter all around us. It isn’t often that I’ve attended staff meetings where any of the girls from the upper floors are in attendance along with the usual suspects: Brier, Fern, and Candice. You can tell the girls from upstairs from any new main floor servers because they look like they stepped out of a perfume or fine jewelry ad.

Brier clocks them instantly, lips pursing as she pretends to study a tray of appetizers on skewers.

“So,” Lala continues, “the big seventies-themed party is quickly approaching, and we’re fine-tuning the details. We’re leaning hard into disco, obviously. For the music, think the Bee Gees, Gloria Gaynor, KC and the Sunshine Band, and Earth, Wind & Fire.”

“And Donna Summer!” Fern yells.

“Yes, I can get my groove on to Love to Love You, Baby!” Candice gasps. “But I swear if someone doesn’t play Stayin’ Alive at least once, I’m picketing this party on principle.”

Lala simultaneously rolls her eyes and extends her arm toward the bar covered in appetizer samplings. “I told the chef to reinterpret the decade,” Lala says proudly. “I’m hoping they’ve nailed a modern spin on classic seventies dishes that will evoke nostalgic vibes.”

Fern already has something on a toothpick. “What’s this one?” She bites into it, eyes widening. “Oh, my god. Is this… General Tso’s chicken? But fancy?”

“I don’t know about this fancy food. I tried something with aioli on it once. It just tasted like fancy mayonnaise to me. If it don’t come with rolls, sweet tea, and some kinda potato, I’m not interested.” Candice picks up a small serving cup and takes a cautious sniff before spooning it into her mouth. “Oh, it’s a Manwich in a cup.” She grins. Clearly, this is something she’s familiar with.

“Thanks for the warning. It’s as if the chef knew you were here,” Brier groans.

I try something that looks suspiciously like a cocktail meatball and hum in surprise. “Wow. This is actually amazing.”