Chapter 1: Stolen hours in the silent kitchen
''You know i have to go home.''
The words hung in the stale air of the bistro's darkened kitchen, a cold statement against the warmth still lingering on her skin. Heath leaned against the stainless-steel counter, his dark brown eyes fixed on her, a slow, infuriating smile playing on his lips. "Do you?" he asked, his voice low. " Or is that just what you tell yourself to feel less guilty?"
Alice turned away, her trembling as a she wiped a nonexistent smudge from the already clean surface. The fluorescent light above buzzed softly, the only sound besides the hum of the refrigerator. The entire place felt hollow after the last customers had left, the clatter of the plates and chatter replaced by this tense, intimate silence. Guilty. The word echoed in her head. Of course, she felt guilty. But not for the reason he implied.
"It's late," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She was the quiet type, he'd said once, like a storm held inside. She focused on the curl of her hair, escaped from her ponytail, brushing against her cheek. She was twenty-one, felt both too young and too old in this moment.
"It's always late when you say that" Heath murmured. He moved, not quickly, but with a deliberate grace that always caught her off guard. He was thirty-four, a bar supervisor, and he moved like he owned every space he entered, even this backroom with its smell of bleach and leftover garlic. He stopped behind her, close enough that could feel the heat radiating from his body through her thin waitress uniform. His fingers, gentle against all his teasing, brushed the nape of her neck, tracing the line where her hair met her skin.
She stiffened. "Don't."
"Why?" His breath was near her ear. "Because it makes it harder to leave?"
Yes. That was exactly why. Months. It had been months since that first night, a clumsy kiss after a shared shift, a fumble in his car that felt more like a mistake than a beginning. An affair, clear and simple. He had a wife. She knew it from the start, a fact that he never hid but never discussed. A shadow in the room. And she, the foolish waitress with brown eyes and too many dreams, had agreed. Passion and arguments. He'd warned her it would be both. He was right.
But lately, the arguments were less about logistics, stolen hours and more about...her. The wife. A word she couldn't stand hearing from his mouth. It wasn't jealousy, she told herself. It was a sickness. A deep, quiet ache that started in her chest every time his phone buzzed with a text, he wouldn't explain every time he mentioned "home" in that detached way. She was falling for him. Slowly, stupidly, completely. And the knowledge of that other woman, that other life, was a stone in her stomach.
His hands slid down, settling on her hips, turning her gently to face him. She resisted for a second, then yielded, her body betraying her mind. She looked up into his eyes. Dark brown, like rich earth, always watching, always knowing. He was a gentleman, even here. Even when his thumbs were pressing into the soft flesh above her waistband, his intention clear. He never forced. He invited. And she always, always, accepted.
"Alice," he said, her name a soft caress.
"You're shaking."
