He’s leaning to talk to Michael, who hands him a drink in a rocks glass. Darcy tosses back most of the contents in one go. For a moment, he looks into the glass, his shoulders going slack, then raises it to his lips to finish it off as he turns to face the dining room. Our eyes meet and I stare at him, mouth agape. What in the actual fuck is he doing here?

He freezes, the glass still at his lips, and it sends a hot wave of annoyance across my shoulders. You don’t get to be surprised. You came to my place of work.

Slowly, he lowers the glass, placing it on the bar without taking his eyes off me, and starts my way.

I shake my head, ignoring the thundering in my rib cage and the sudden rush of blood to southern territories. Damn stupid hormones. I’m already fueled by burning hatred—no need for burning loins. Darcy stops at the edge of the dining room. He looks at the stage, like he’s trying to determine if he can walk over without interrupting Ming. Don’t you dare—

Beside me, a light flares. A guy in his midforties wearing a suit and tie makes his way up the stairs. His eyes are on his phone, the glowing screen illuminating his face as he rubs incriminatingly under his nose. He doesn’t notice me until he’s two steps below me.

I hold up a hand and confirm Ming’s progress. She’s at the bra reveal, and it’d be better if this guy wasn’t milling through the crowd when she gets down to her tassels. I conjure an apologetic smile. “One sec. Ming’s wrapping up and then you can take your seat.”

Mr. Nose Candy gauges my authority with a quick, bleary-eyed scan but doesn’t come any closer. Instead, he rests his back against the wall, tucking his phone into his pocket to watch Ming through the fine bars of the guardrail. I smile my thanks, then nod at Ginn and Tonic, who file up the stairs below him. I raise a finger to indicate the wait time, and they give me a thumbs-up, the casual gesture at odds with their dramatic ensembles.

Ming lets out a whoop and the red sequined bra goes flying, arcing toward the band. As I monitor the trajectory, my thoughts drift to Darcy. I cross my arms as tightly as the boning in my corset can allow and fight the urge to look at him, though his location is branded into my awareness. Yesterday’s parting shots should have been more than sufficient. This bridge has been burned from both ends. What could he want?