Page 25 of Temporary Vows

A cocky grin dances over his full, firm lips. “If she wants to keep her job, she won’t.”

Wow. Such is the power of Dorian Vale. I guess if he wanted to, he could have Beth fired and replaced before morning.

She doesn’t keep us waiting. Not even a minute passes before she returns with our coffee.

She smiles at Dorian as she places his cup before him, but she doesn’t even acknowledge me.

“Is there anything else I can get you, Mr. Vale?” she asks in that sickly sweet voice.

“I’ll let you know.”

She dips her head then cuts me a scathing glance before sauntering away.

This time, Dorian spares her a glance. When he looks back at me, he motions to my coffee cup. “Drink.”

“Thank you.” I take a sip, and it tastes amazing.

What would he say if he knew I haven’t even been able to afford a cup of coffee?

Since my car broke down, I’ve had to ration food, and that’s likely to continue.

Of course, that’s if I’m still alive after next week.

I push the sordid thought away, but it’s very much a possibility since I have no idea how I’m going to get Marcus’ money. So far, my only option is to run.

But I can’t even do that without money. That’s why I’m still around.

Dorian lifts his own cup, fingers wrapping around the porcelain like it’s an extension of his hand. He takes a slow, unhurried sip. Obscene in its simplicity—his mouth on the rim, his throat working as he swallows, the smallest flex of tendons at his wrist catching the light off his watch—but heat crawls up my neck.

There is absolutely nothing sexual about watching a man drink coffee, but tell that to the part of me that tracks every shift of his mouth like I’m starving and he’s the sin I promised myself I’d never touch again.

Dorian sets the mug down and gives me a cutting stare that pierces through me. “What are you doing working here?”

I blink at him, buying myself a second. “Working,” I say, because it’s the safest answer and the only one that doesn’t involve the wordsloan shark,deadline, orI might die on Monday.

One of his brows lifts, the faintest arch of disbelief. His eyes narrow, not in anger but in that precise, dissecting way he has. The dark in his gaze sharpens with cool intent, and for a heartbeat, I feel like I’m under a microscope.

“Cute,” he murmurs, the word almost a sigh. Something flints behind his eyes. I can’t tell if it’s annoyance, concern, or calculation. “Try again. What are you doing working here? What happened to teaching?”

If I tell him I teach, he’ll know this is a second job, and that will open the door for more questions. But if I don’t tell him, I’ll feel like a complete failure.

“I teach English literature at the Ashworth Academy in Connecticut.”

The words sound impressive enough that, for a second, I almost fool myself. Like I’m one of those women who postsglossy classroom photos online with cute mugs and inspirational quotes. Like I actually made it.

In reality, I’m barely clinging to that job by my fingernails, grading essays in stolen minutes between shifts and praying no one looks closely enough to see how close I am to falling apart.

I guess if I run, I won’t have to worry about being judged, but running means turning my back on my dream.

The tension in his expression loosens, like he’s relieved I made something out of myself. “That’s good to hear.”

“I’m only working here to make some extra money,” I throw in before he can ask. “There’s something big I have to pay for. So, I’m saving.” I’m impressed I thought up that half-truth answer.

“I see. I hope that means once you get whatever it is you’re saving for, you can go back to just teaching.”

I nod, although I know that may be a long, long time to come—again, depending on what happens on Monday. “This is temporary.”

“I guess I won’t see you around, then.”