Staged Romance

Chapter 1

I wiped the counter again, even though it didn't need it. My eyes flicked up to the clock above the door—11:58 p.m. Two more minutes, and I'd be free to lock up and finally get home. My legs ached, my back felt like it was on fire, and my feet were throbbing inside my worn-out sneakers. Another double shift, another long day of pretending to smile while dealing with people who couldn't care less about me.

The diner was practically empty now, just me and the flickering fluorescent lights that made the place feel even more tired than I was. The only sound was the low hum of the refrigerator behind the counter. My fingers were itching to untie my apron and get the hell out of here, but I knew better than to leave before the clock hit midnight. The owner, Jerry, had a way of showing up at odd hours, and the last thing I needed was to get in trouble for closing early.

I leaned against the counter and stared out at the dark street through the window, my mind drifting to the stack of bills waiting for me at home. Rent was due in a week, and even with all the hours I'd been working, I was still short. I didn't know how I was going to make it, but then again, that wasn't new. I'd been figuring it out day by day since I left home at 18.

Just as I was about to reach for my phone to check the time again, headlights flashed through the window, cutting through the darkness. A sleek black car—way too fancy for this part of town—pulled into the parking lot. I felt a twist of irritation in my stomach. Of course, someone would pull up right before closing.

The car door opened, and a man stepped out, his silhouette sharp and imposing under the streetlight. My annoyance deepened. I could already tell what kind of person this was—some rich guy who probably couldn't be bothered to follow normal hours like the rest of us. He swaggered toward the door, and I braced myself, forcing a neutral expression onto my face as the bell above the door jingled when he walked in.

He didn't look around, didn't acknowledge me, just strode straight to the counter like he owned the place. Up close, I could see him better. Tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a suit that screamed money. His dark hair was styled perfectly, not a strand out of place, and he had this air about him like the world revolved around him. He slid onto the stool in front of me without a word.

I waited a beat, then cleared my throat. "Kitchen's closed."

He finally looked up at me, his eyes dark and calculating. "Just coffee," he said, his voice low and smooth, but there was an edge to it that set my teeth on edge. "Black."

No please, no thank you, nothing. Just an order. I clenched my jaw, turning to grab the coffee pot. I'd dealt with guys like him before—guys who thought a waitress was beneath them, someone to bark orders at. But I wasn't about to let him get under my skin. I'd been at this long enough to let the rudeness roll off my back.

I poured the coffee and slid the cup in front of him. He didn't even glance at it, just wrapped his fingers around it and took a sip. Silence stretched between us, thick and uncomfortable, but I wasn't about to fill it. If he wanted something, he'd have to ask for it, and judging by the way he was acting, I wasn't sure he even knew how to ask for anything.

I busied myself wiping down the counter again, hoping he'd take the hint and drink his coffee quickly. The sooner he left, the sooner I could clock out.

But then his phone rang, the sharp sound cutting through the quiet diner like a knife. He didn't seem surprised, just pulled it out of his pocket and answered with a clipped, "Walsh."

I kept my head down, pretending not to listen, but his voice was hard to ignore.

"No, that's not acceptable. I don't care what the board says, the deal has to go through." He paused, his jaw tightening. "Figure it out. I'm not losing this contract over incompetence."