But her hand would not move to take the cash. She was not a thief, had never stolen anything in her life. Besides, it would take the entire contents of the register to solve her financial problems, and obviously she couldn’t clean Miguel out. She had thought herself capable of anything to ensure her survival in New York City, but she’d been wrong. There were lines she couldn’t cross.

“What are you doing?” She recognized the voice—deep, masculine, suspicious—before she even turned around. Her manager, Wayne. Shit.

She slammed the drawer closed. “N-nothing.”

Her boss’s brown eyes narrowed beneath heavy black brows. “You’re not allowed behind the bar. You’re not allowed in Miguel’s till.”

“I know. I just . . . I needed change. Miguel was in the cellar. He said I could help myself.”

With impeccable timing, the basement door banged opened and Miguel entered. He was wheeling an aluminum keg on a dolly. “What’s she doing back here?”

“She was in your till,” Wayne replied. “She said you gave her permission to make change.”

For a fraction of a second, Nat thought Miguel might cover for her . . . a way to get back in her good graces, or a nod to what they’d once shared. But his expression was stony, his voice ice. “No. I didn’t.”

“So, you were going to steal from us?” Wayne asked, voice vibrating with suppressed anger.

“No. I wasn’t. I—”

But Miguel cut her off.

“It wasn’t enough to dump me. You thought you’d steal from my till and get me fired, too.”

“You refused to make my drinks! You were trying to punish me!”

“I was busy, okay? You’re so wrapped up in yourself that you forget that there are other people working here!”

Patrons were watching them now, alerted by the raised voices, the contention in the air. Nat could feel her face burning with humiliation, her pulse pounding with dread. Miguel’s eyes were fiery—rage, disgust, loathing. Wayne clocked the concerned looks of his customers. He had to shut this down.

“I’m not having you two working out some romantic vendetta in my bar.” His voice was low but firm. “Nat, you’re gone.”

“What?”

“You heard me. You’re fired.” He took a few steps, then stopped. “Miguel, get back to work or you’re next.”

Miguel had the decency to look shocked on her behalf. “Nat . . . ,” he began, but she hurried away, toward the staff room where her coat and purse hung from a metal hook. Tears were stinging her eyes, but she blinked them back. She was not going to fall apart in here.

It was outside, in the cool night air, that she let the tears pour down her face. She was in serious financial straits now. She had debts, her rent and tuition bills were looming. She had no job, no source of income, no . . . whatever Miguel had been to her. A sense of panic, of desperation nearly overwhelmed her. And then, a moment of clarity, an epiphany of sorts. There was an answer to all her problems.