Salon Privé sits on the beachfront at the far end of Devil's Cove. It's the type of place with a strict dress code and a menu with no prices. I've passed its unassuming door plenty of times but have never had the need nor the budget to see what's on the other side.
I step inside and hover in the entryway, trying to gawp without looking like a spectator at the zoo.
It smells like lemon and old money boxed in by dark wood walls. The sconces lining them are too far apart, creating more shadows than they do light. The tables are spaced far apart too, draped in white linen and plated with the kind of silverware siblings fight over in their grandmother's will.
Jeez. I say a little prayer that I don't need to reach for my wallet when the check comes, because I doubt I could afford a glass of tap water in a place like this, let alone a full meal.
A polished brunette holding a tablet approaches. "Good evening, ma'am. Do you have a reservation?"
I smile up at her, tugging at my dress, saying another silent prayer that she won't notice my Chanel flap purse is a knock-off. "Um, yes. It's under the name David, for eight p.m."
The screen lights up her frown as she scrolls through a list. "And the last name?"
I pause. Well, crap, I've no idea. David and I have been texting back and forth over the last few days, and I thought I'd covered all the important questions.
What he does for work—something to do with computers; what his favorite movie is—the third one in that boring franchise about the Fast and Furious cars; does he have an Instagram account I can stalk—no.
But I'd forgotten to ask his last name.
"Um." I sweep the restaurant, hoping to spot a friendly smile and a wave. But there's barely anyone here, aside from a handful of men scattered around in corner booths, and even in the low lighting, I can tell none of them are David.
Irritation pulses beneath my ribs. I can't believe he's late. I know I'm late too, but that's beside the point.
I glance toward the bar in a last-ditch effort to find him, but my eyes snag on another familiar figure instead.
I grow cold. Then clammy.
No. Surely not.
Gabriel's resting easy against the bar. Black jeans, black T-shirt covering the black hole where his heart should sit. He's got one boot casually hooked around the other, but when his gaze locks onto mine and sparks hot, I realize there's nothing casual about him at all.
A fever drifts through me.
This can't be happening. He can't be real.
"Um." This woman must think that's the only word I know. "Excuse me for a moment. I've just got to …"
Never mind, there's no time for pleasantries.
Gabriel lazily tracks my approach, his gaze peeling off silk and skin. I weave through tables, narrowly dodging a passing server. I'm barely looking where I'm going—too focused on getting to the bar and getting him out of it.
He turns around and rests his elbows on the bar as I slide up beside him, as though he weren't watching me at all.
Holding my glare in the reflection of the mirrored wall, he rakes his teeth over his bottom lip. "Do you know why so many joints have mirrors behind the bars?"
What? "What are you doing here?"
He slowly raises his whiskey glass and takes a sip. "Go on, guess."
Panic laced with irritation fissures through my blood. Knowing he won't answer my question until I answer his, I bite back, "I don't know. So the barmaid can touch up her makeup probably."
He releases a dry breath of amusement. "No. It's a tradition that dates back to the Old West. Saloons would put them up so punters drinking at the bar could see if anyone was approaching them from behind."
Distracted, I throw a cautionary glance over my shoulder at the door. "Cool. Awesome fact. Can you leave, please?"
I'm practically begging, but he continues as though he hasn't heard me.
"Because if anyone were to approach them from behind, it'd usually mean they're about to catch a bullet to the back of the head."
My stomach turns to lead. His tone is sunny-day calm, but when he lifts his chin to look at me in the reflection again, the overhead light catches the slither of dark amusement in his eye.
I can't breathe. Can't think. My throat dries out, and now I can't talk either.
Swirling the liquor in his glass, he turns to face me, the movement slow and deliberate. His gaze is objective, yet it feels like a rough scrape as he takes in my outfit.
"Why do you always wear pink?"
I stare at him.
Oh, my God.
He's here because I'm here.
Guess I'll see you there. It wasn't an empty threat, it was a promise.
Oh, Jesus. I'd clawed the jealousy out of his black soul to feed my own ego. I was out of my mind last night, tossing my remarks into the dark like matches, thinking they'd never land near the light.
But they did. He caught one.
Now he's going to teach me a lesson by setting my evening on fire.
I swallow the dread and try to gulp in a full breath. Gritting my teeth, I fold my hands together and force myself to smile.
"It hides the bloodstains," I say weakly, mocking his answer to me when I asked why he always wears black.
Something dangerous simmers in his gaze.
He nods once. "Good."
"Good."
We stare at each other, tension hanging between us like smoke, growing thicker with every second.
I don't dare blink.
Not when my eyes start to water, nor when the restaurant door opens, and icy air brushes up my spine.
Not even when David calls out my name.
"Enjoy your date," Gabriel murmurs. His voice is smooth, but there's an edge to it, sharp and surgical.
Though my insides turn in on themselves, I refuse to flinch. "Oh, I will," I say as sweetly as I can muster. "It's going to be a blast."
I turn on my heel and stalk toward David, trepidation vibrating in my knees. He lights up when he sees me, grin broad and eyes roaming.
"Wren! Wow, you look …" He shakes his head so hard the flowers in his hand tremble. "Just, wow."
I plaster on my widest smile. "Thank you, David. It's so nice to see you again," I chime, too jittery and loud for such a fancy restaurant. "You look just as handsome as I remember."
It's not a lie, it's a polite stretching of the truth. I'm sure he looks fine, but I can barely see him through the searing heat on my back.
He presses the bouquet into my hand, mumbling through an apology about being late. Then we follow the hostess to our table, under Gabriel's watchful eye.
Something stubborn suddenly knots between my shoulder blades.
You know what? If he wants a first-row seat to the show, I'll give him an Oscar-worthy performance.
Sliding into the chair feels like I'm stepping on stage without knowing my lines. My spine's rigid, my skin's blistering, but my smile is unwavering. How hard can flirting be? I've watched enough rom-coms in my time to figure it out.
I rest my chin on my hand and gaze up at David, trying to ignore the ominous shadow bleeding out from behind his shoulders.
"You know, I've been looking forward to this all week."
He blinks up from the menu. "Really?"
"Uh-huh. I even bought a new outfit." I bite my lip and rake my fingers through my hair, like Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally. "Do you like it?"
He glances down at my dress, which has been stuffed in the back of my closest for over a year. "Sure, it's beautiful. It's very …" He licks his lips, searching for the appropriate adjective. "Pink."
I throw my head back and laugh like Julia Robert's in Pretty Woman when Richard Gere snaps the jewelry box on her fingers. "Oh, David. I'd forgotten how funny you are."
He flashes me a look of concern. "Are you okay?"
Dragging the napkin into my lap with a tight fist, I smile so hard it hurts. "You know what, David? I've never been better."
We order drinks. He says me drinking lemonade makes me a cheap date.
I giggle like I understand the joke.
Then he tells me about his job. His Sunday soccer league. I nearly burn my wrist on the candle, reaching over to stroke his arm when he tells me, with a rueful look in his eye, that if it weren't for his knee injury, he would have gone pro.
I nod, smile, and laugh in all the right places. Bat my eyelashes and twirl my hair. I even try to speak in a breathy Marilyn Monroe voice at one point but drop it after the fifth time he asks me to repeat myself.
Because if he can't hear me, then Gabriel definitely can't.
Gabriel. I've avoided looking up to keep him out of sight, but he's never out of mind.
He sits beneath my skin, heavy and constant, pumping each of my heartbeats, squeezing each breath from my lungs.
I feel his glare on my throat every time I lean back in my chair.
I hear the pop of his gun every time I lean forward over the table.
He's there, watching me.
And I have an awful feeling that he's not just watching but waiting.
Appetizers arrive. I toy with my salad, moving greens and stabbing tomatoes.
David's telling me about the time he almost made it onto national television when the server appears balancing two drinks on a silver platter.
"Lemonade for the lady, whiskey for the gentleman," he says, placing them on the table.
David glances up. "Thanks, but we didn't order these."
The server offers a polite smile. "They're from the gentleman at the bar. The whiskey is a sixty-year-old Smuggler's Club. Only ten bottles were ever produced."
My shoulders hitch to my ears.
David throws a look behind him. "From the guy you were talking to when I arrived? Do you know him?"
"Kind of," I mutter, suddenly feeling faint.
Unease tap dances down my spine as I watch him take a greedy gulp. Then annoyance climbs back up the way because what the hell is he playing at, sending over a drink that probably costs more than my college tuition?
I get it; he's a Visconti. Though he wears the same black top and pants, like every day, I don't doubt he's loaded. But flashing his cash sure as hell isn't going to impress me.