The bass from the dance floor rolled through the walls like distant thunder, muted enough in the lounge corner that conversation didnât have to compete with it. Low amber lights reflected across the glass table between them.
Phei sat back in the booth, a bottle of water in his hand, condensation sliding slowly down the plastic.
He hadnât touched the drink menu.
The ad shoot was handled â or would be, once the Ashford Madam called Emily. But Phei wanted to ask the boys himself before Emily assigned them. Theyâd earned that courtesy. Landon and Brian werenât his employees.
They were his people.
And his people got asked, not told.
That wasnât the only reason he was here though.
Landon
wanted to find himself a
woman.
Badly. The boy had game but no luck, or luck but no
follow-through,
or some
combination of the two
that left him perpetually almost-there and never quite arriving.
Brian was sharper â already had a girl,
two-something
years together, but wanted more. The concept wasnât alien in Paradise. Brian was good-looking, smart, capable of handling the logistics of more than one relationship without the whole thing collapsing into jealousy and tears.
But he wanted Pheiâs presence to boost the odds for Landonâs confidence and also just to hang out.
Three boys. One night.
The simple,
uncomplicated
pleasure of doing nothing important with people who expected nothing from you except your company.
Phei had a bit of free time. So why not.
The boys hadnât arrived yet.
But someone else had.
Across from him, the woman lifted her glass of whiskey, had been studying him over the rim.
Sheâd been doing this for more than ten minutes. Theyâd greeted each other when he sat down â polite, brief, the standard exchange between strangers sharing booth-adjacent space in a crowded lounge.
A few words. Nothing memorable.
Then Phei had cut himself off, ordered his water, and started watching the waiters serve bottles of wine and spirits to tables around them with the quiet interest of someone who found other peopleâs drinking habits more entertaining than his own.
She hadnât stopped looking at him.
She had this expression â a brooderâs face. Dark eyes, heavy-lidded, the kind of gaze that usually pointed inward at whatever complicated machinery was turning behind a personâs thoughts. But for the last five minutes, all of that processing power had been redirected.
At him. Openly. Without even attempting to hide it.
Sheâd ignored the man sitting next to her completely.
The man â mid-thirties, well-dressed, clearly someone whoâd been mid-conversation with her before Phei had become the more interesting object in the room â had gone quiet.
He sat with his drink in his hand and his jaw slightly tight, looking between the woman and Phei with the particular discomfort of a man whoâd been outclassed so thoroughly he wasnât sure whether to be angry or impressed.
He chose neither. Just sat there. Shrinking by increments.
His shoulders had dropped two inches since Phei sat down and heâd straightened his tie three times, each adjustment a small, unconscious admission that something about the boy across the table made him feel less than heâd felt when he woke up this morning.
He knew who Phei was. Most people in Paradise knew who Phei was. And knowing that only made the slow bleed-out of his own relevance feel more surgical.
He finished his drink. Set it down. Excused himself with a mumble that neither Phei nor the woman acknowledged.
He left.
The woman didnât watch him go.
Phei noticed the look.
Heâd been letting it sit â the way you let a cat approach on its terms. But five minutes was enough patience for one evening.
He broke the silence.
"Are you a
brooder?"
She blinked. Slight. The micro-adjustment of someone whose thoughts had just been interrupted mid-sentence.
"Iâm sorry, a... what?"
"A
brooder."
He gestured vaguely with the bottle. "Someone who sits quietly, stares at a stranger, and thinks very hard about something about that specific stranger."
A faint smile touched her lips.
"I wasnât staring."
"Mm."
"Alright, maybe I was," she admitted, swirling the whiskey. "But brooding implies something heavier."
"Does it?" he said. "Youâve had the same expression for the last â" he glanced lazily toward the clock behind the bar "â
seven minutes and twelve seconds."
"Thatâs
very
precise."
"Iâm observant."
She tilted her head.
"Or
pathologically detail-oriented
."
He considered that for a second.
"Those two tend to travel together."
She laughed softly into her drink â genuine, surprised.
She studied him again.
"Youâre drinking water."
"Yes."
"In a nightclub."
"Yes."
"Youâre not waiting for someone to slip something into it, are you?"
"Optimistic of you to assume anyoneâs coordinated enough to pull that off in this lighting."
Her mouth curved, delighted. "Oh, I think people are interested," she said. "You just look like youâre actively trying to bore them into
leaving you alone
."
He leaned back. Unbothered. "I hope it works"
"Yet here I am... breaking it." She said with a laugh. "Why are you here if not to charm strangers like myself."
"I came here to wait for friends."
"And water helps with that?"
"It discourages conversation."
She lifted her glass. "Well, clearly it failed spectacularly."
He allowed the smallest smile. "Yes. Clearly."
She took another sip. Slower this time. Her eyes stayed on him over the rim â dark, focused, the look of a woman whoâd decided that whatever sheâd come to this club for tonight had been replaced by a better objective.
"So," she said. "Are you always this composed?"
"Composed?"
"Youâre sitting in a club like youâre waiting for your tax attorney."
"That sounds peaceful."
"That sounds like a cry for help disguised as interior design."
"Only if you require noise to feel alive."
She watched him. "Youâre not what I expected."
"From what?"
"From someone sitting alone in a place like this."
"And what did you expect?" She tapped her glass against the table.
"I donât know. Someone restless. Maybe a little desperate."
"Looking for attention?"
"Something like that."
He shook his head slightly. "No."
She leaned forward. Curiosity sharpening. "Then why are you here?"
"I told you."
"Waiting for friends."
"Yes."
"And until they arrive you plan to just sit there with your water."
"Thatâs the idea."
Her lips curved. "Youâre very difficult to read."
"That might be the point."
She opened her mouth, then paused. "Can I ask you something slightly personal?"
"You can ask."
"And youâll decide whether to answer."
"Exactly."
She nodded, amused by the structure.
"Are you â" she hesitated, searching for the word. "â someone who thinks a lot?"
"Thatâs a dangerous question."
"Why?"
"Because people usually ask it when they mean something else."
"Like?"
He met her gaze.
"Like whether Iâm
lonely?"
Her expression shifted. Just slightly. "I wasnât going to say lonely."
"No?"
She swirled the whiskey, watching the liquid turn.
"More like
untouchable
."
He sipped his water, "Distance is
underrated."
"Is it?"
"It keeps conversations honest."
She smiled faintly.
"Thatâs a very elegant way of saying you donât like people getting too close."
He shrugged.
"Or maybe I just prefer choosing when they do. And how long theyâre allowed to stay."
Silence settled between them. Comfortable. Weighted.
She leaned back in the booth, studying him openly now. The pretence of subtlety abandoned. She was looking at him the way women looked at things they wanted to take home and couldnât justify.
"You know," she said slowly, "most men in this place would have bought me a drink by now."
"I noticed you already have one."
"Thatâs not the point."
"Iâm sure it isnât."
She laughed quietly.
"You really donât make this easy."
"I wasnât aware there was an objective."
"Oh, there is." Her eyes brightened. A challenge forming. "Iâm trying to crack you open like a particularly stubborn safe."
"And?"
She tilted her head again.
"Iâm still working on it."
He lifted the bottle slightly.
"Well," he said, "you have until my friends arrive. After that the booth becomes a crime scene and Iâll need it for evidence."
She raised her glass, eyes glittering.
"Then I suppose I should drink slowly."