“I’m also pre-sharing my plan.” A smile curls at the corners of his mouth. It makes him look younger, more carefree.

When I laugh, there’s a howl in the distance in response.

“You’ve got the wolves’ attention,” he says. Our gazes meet, and there’s heat in his eyes I wasn’t expecting. “As well as mine.”

My stomach flips and I look away. There’s no doubt now Byron’s flirting with me, and the flutters in my stomach say I don’t mind a bit. Why would I? The last two years with Frank have been… disheartening. There was no flirting. No flutters. No love between us.

“Is having your attention a good thing?” I ask.

He pushes out a breath. “God only knows. You just jilted a man at the altar and I… I have stuff going on.” A grin slowly unfurls on his face. “But you make a great hot chocolate. That’s for damn sure.”

EIGHT

Rosey

The uniforms at the Colorado Club have less than nothing in common with the gray polyester coveralls I had to wear at Frank’s garage. I used to itch just looking at them. Nothing I’m wearing right now could withstand a flamethrower the way a Eugene Auto Sales uniform could. My plain black pantsuit—black trousers, a fitted white shirt, and a black vest—might not be fireproof, but it feels anything but plain. I feel like I should be a patron of a fancy restaurant, not a server at one.

“You look great,” the girl with the sleek black bob says from where she’s changing beside me.

“Thanks. You too. The suits are nice, right?”

There are three of us starting today. I’m glad I’m not the only one.

Bob Girl lowers her voice. “I heard Hugo Boss designed them.”

I couldn’t tell you exactly who Hugo Boss is, but he sure does make nice clothes.

“They feel…” The fabric is soft against my skin and fits like it’s been tailored specifically for me. The outfit is unadorned but makes me feel sexy. Pretty. Prettier than I felt on my wedding day. But I also feel so comfortable, because it’s such a good fit. This uniform makes me feel like I’m meant to be here. Like I fit.

“Sophisticated,” she says. “I guess billionaires want their waitresses to look expensive.”

“Billionaires?” I ask.

“Yeah, you know—the guests who will be staying here.”

I nod like I understand what she’s getting at. It’s a hotel. It’s not like everyone’s going to be a billionaire.

“I’m only here to find a husband,” the woman on the other side of the locker room says. “I heard they take centimillionaires too. I’d be okay with that.”

She and the other girl laugh. I feel like I’m missing something.