Page 41 of Tempted By the Safety

“You did good tonight,” I say, eyes on the road. “With Dean.”

“Yeah?” Milo turns to look at me. “Thanks for not stepping in.”

“Wasn’t mine to step into.” I reach over to find his hand, and he laces his fingers through mine. “I’m proud of you, sunshine.”

He goes quiet for a second, and when I glance over again, he’s smiling.

16

Milo

Spencer’s hand finds the small of my back the second we’re through the door, warm through the silk of my shirt, and it’s the only thing keeping my feet moving forward instead of backward.

“I still think this is a terrible idea,” I say under my breath.

“The food’s good and they’re discreet. Nobody here films a table full of players.”

“That’s not the part I’m worried about.”

“I know.” His thumb sweeps against my spine. “You’ll be fine.”

I wore the wine-colored shirt tonight, the one that goes translucent under certain lights and clings everywhere it touches, and I know exactly why I chose it. The pants are new too, fitted through the thigh, and I caught Spencer staring at my ass in the hallway mirror before we left the house, unapologetic about it, which is new for him. Two months ago he’d have looked away. Now he just looks.

The restaurant hasn’t changed. Same low light, same smell of garlic and browned butter that used to live in my clothes no matter how many times I washed them. Walking back in as a customer instead of an employee turns my stomach over, likemy body hasn’t gotten the memo that I don’t work the floor here anymore.

I spot our table before the hostess even points us toward it, because five professional football players tend to be visible from across a room. Dalton’s got his elbows on the table, mid-sentence, and Barrett’s beside him, listening to every word of it, his knuckles moving in a slow line between Dalton’s shoulder blades. Harlow’s across from them with a dark-haired guy I haven’t met, who has to be Bennett, because their shoulders are pressed together. Knox has an empty chair on one side of him and Cole on the other, and he’s scrolling his phone without reading it. Cole sits back and watches the room.

“There they are,” Dalton announces. “You guys are twenty minutes late. What happened?”

“Traffic,” I say, sliding into the chair Spencer pulls out for me.

Dalton looks at me for a second, then at Spencer, and smirks. “Ah. Traffic.”

My ears go hot, but the dark-haired guy saves me by putting his hand out across the table.

“Hi, Milo. Good to finally meet you. I’m Bennett.”

“You too.” I shake it, then lift the same hand at the table generally. “Hi, everyone.”

We’re two minutes into menus when I see him coming, and my whole body goes still before my brain’s caught all the way up.

Alan, my old boss, is wiping his hands on a cloth tucked into his waistband as he moves toward our table with the walk he does for VIPs: shoulders back, chin up, a smile stretched onto his face. He takes in the table, a lineup of professional athletes in his dining room, and then he gets to me and stops in his tracks.

“Milo?” His eyebrows climb. “Is that you?”

“Hi, Alan.”

He recovers fast, the smile snapping back into place, but not before I catch the half second when he didn’t know who he was looking at. “I didn’t recognize you right away.” He gives a short laugh, aimed at no one. “You look… well. You look good.”

“Thanks.”

“So. This is a surprise.” His eyes flick around the table, then back to me, and whatever he works out, he doesn’t like it. “How have you been?”

“Good. Really good, actually.” I keep my voice easy, the same one I used on difficult tables. “How’s the kitchen? Is Marcus still doing Tuesdays?”

“Marcus, yeah. Marcus is still with us.” Alan shifts his weight. “Things have been… tight. You know how it is. We had to make some cuts after you—” He stops himself, clears his throat, moves on. “Anyway. Staffing’s been a challenge.”

“I bet.”