Page 11 of Mr. Wilde

My therapist had drilled the popular grounding technique into me. Her favorite mindfulness method to reduce anxiety and stress by focusing on the present moment. It helps shift your attention from distressing thoughts to one’s current environment.

Suddenly the music swells and the lights dim. “You ready?” Lala asks, her eyes encouraging.

“Yes.” I step onto the floor for my first shift, nerves buzzing under my skin. Tray steady in my grasp. My smile isn’t genuine, but well-practiced. My eyes are always moving, scanning the room.

The bar fills gradually. There’s no mistaking the wealth of the members here. If the bespoke clothing, shoes, and cologne aren’t a giveaway, the way they carry themselves is.

Jeez, what was I thinking deciding to work here? I’m way outside my comfort zone with these muckety-mucks.

Music pulses low and steady. Laughter rises. I move between tables, careful and alert. My body always angled so I can see the room. Then I feel it. An unavoidable shift in the air.

I don’t look right away. Attempting instead to get my nerves under control. Wouldn’t want to give away how unhinged I feel. So I repeat my mantra.

Name five things you can see: Expensive, leather lounge chairs. Cigar smoke. Red-soled stilettos I never imagined wearing in a million years. Polished men in tailored suits with more money than God. And sweet Lala, never out of earshot.

Name four things you can touch. A beautiful, shiny silver cocktail dress. A serving tray that is likely to be my constant companion for the length of my employment. The floor thumping beneath my feet. And my hands, clammy and shaking with anxiety.

Name three things you can hear. Chatter. Over-the-top giggling girls. My heartbeat in my ears.

When I finally glance up, my gaze catches on him.

Holy hell, he’s incredibly handsome. My pulse skips a beat just looking at him. He’s sitting with a group of men who look like they belong here. Each of them wearing expensive suits and effortless confidence. They exude money simply by the way they take up space. Natural. Completely unaffected. Yet he’s different. Quieter. Watching everything.

Watching me.

Not in a way that makes my skin crawl. It’s not predatory. Just… laser-focused. Like he’s clocking details without realizing it.

Our eyes meet. My face heats. Yet it’s not in the usual way. When I’ve become anxious at someone’s unwanted attention.

But that’s crazy.

I look away first. Why am I so hyper-aware of his presence, even when he isn’t looking in my direction any longer? After a year of rebuilding my life around avoiding attention, this moment… no, this man makes me feel seen in a way I’ve never felt before.

And that’s the very last thing I need right now.

3

MAX

I tell myself to stop looking at her. I even manage it.

For about ten seconds.

My instincts keep telling me she doesn’t belong here. Not the way the rest of the girls do. There’s something about the way she moves through the room. She’s too aware of people watching her, just a little too careful. It’s as if she’s cataloging exits instead of faces.

I take inventory of her: pink hair, deep blue eyes, almost too big for her face, and a guarded posture. Sure, she’s dressed to impress with a hot little body and a ponytail that reminds me of cotton candy. Everything about her physical appearance screams, I’m a party. But it’s the subtle cues that lie underneath.

What, am I a fucking profiler now?

Lifting my beer, I take a sip. I’m sitting in a club designed to sell fantasy, drawn to the one woman who looks like she’s actively trying to plan her escape.

Gianni appears at my side without warning. It’s as if he materializes out of thin air. You’d think I’d be used to his stealthy approach by now. “You’re staring,” he jibes, lifting a glass of scotch from a passing tray.

“Am I?” I don’t look at him.

He follows my gaze. “She’s new. Her name is Cassidy.”

My jaw tightens. I think I preferred it when she was anonymous. Almost a built-in reminder to keep it that way.