Chapter One

RAYA

I swirled the ice in the shaker with a rhythmic clink, feeling the beat of the music pulse through the soles of my thigh-high black boots. The vibrant chatter of Sweet Cocktails wrapped around me like a warm embrace as I caught the lemon twist mid-air and spiraled it into the waiting glass. "One gin fizz, coming right up," I announced with a wink to the patron at the end of the bar.

"Make that two," called out another voice, eager not to be left out of the artisanal drink parade I orchestrated nightly. My hands moved of their own accord, part muscle memory, part showmanship, as I juggled bottles and garnishes, pouring the perfect measures of spirits and mixers.

"Raya! Your special martini, please?" An eager regular flagged me down from midway down the polished mahogany, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.

"Coming up," I replied, my lips curving into a smile. This was my moment—the raspberry martini, my secret recipe that had become something of an urban legend among the locals. I reached for the chilled bottle where the raspberries had been steeping in the vodka, infusing it with its rich, crimson hue.

As I mixed the concoction, the tangy-sweet aroma of raspberries filled the air, and a hush fell over the closest patrons, their attention riveted on the spectacle. I poured the liquid, now a vibrant pink, into the frosted martini glass, finishing it off with a skewer of fresh berries.

"Here you go," I said, sliding the glass across the bar. The woman took a sip, her eyes closing in bliss. "It's incredible, Raya. There's nothing like it anywhere else."

"Thank you," I replied, flushed with pride. It wasn't just the drink they came for; it was the experience, the escape from the mundane.

"Raya!" The bar owner, a middle-aged man with a silver-tipped goatee and sharp blue eyes, clapped his hand on my shoulder. "I've got to hand it to you; that martini of yours is a hit. You've really proven yourself since I took a chance on you."

"Thanks, boss," I said, my cheeks warming under his praise. It felt good to be recognized, to know that my creations brought something unique to the table.

"Keep it up," he encouraged before turning back to oversee the rest of the establishment.

I surveyed my kingdom—the gleaming glasses, the rows of bottles, each one promising a new story or an adventure. And there I was, Raya Kinkaid, the master mixologist, the creator of the secret raspberry martini, standing tall behind the bar of Sweet Cocktails, the hottest bar in Orange County, where every night was an opportunity to dazzle and delight. Not even I could have imagined I'd be standing here now, like I'd finally caught the golden ring of fortune and the future was simply mine for the taking.

As the hum of conversations melded with the clink of ice against glass, I caught Trina's eye from across the room. She was serving a boisterous group at a nearby table, but our gazes connected, sharing a silent conversation. She was both my roommate and best friend, and I knew that her small, knowing smile was a silent cheer for the successes we both harbored beneath the surface of our daily grind.

"Another round, Raya!" The shout snapped me back to the task at hand, and I turned with a flourish, grabbing a bottle of premium vodka and spinning it in my hand. As I poured, my mind wandered for a brief second, carried away by the undercurrent of memories that always seemed to flow just beneath the shiny veneer of the present.

Back in Texas, the dusty little town where I grew up felt worlds away from the glitz and glam of California. My hands, once chapped and stained from the dirt of barren fields, now danced with practiced grace over the sleek bottles and shakers. Those days spent counting pennies for a meal, learning to trust no one, and relying solely on my wits had hardened me in ways these city folks couldn't begin to fathom. There, I had learned to be as sharp as the broken glass littering the parking lots I'd call home some nights, as resilient as the weeds sprouting through cracks in the sun-scorched pavement.

"Raya, you with us?" Trina's voice anchored me back to the present, concern flickering in her clear blue eyes. With a shake of my head, I banished the ghosts of my past and offered her a reassuring wink. I'd come so far from who and what I once was; I wouldn't let those shadows touch me again. Not while I had friends like Trina, not while I had a future that was mine to shape.

The clink of ice against glass punctuated the hum of conversation as I returned to the task at hand. The Friday night crowd at Sweet Cocktails was a blend of regulars and first-timers, all seeking the kind of escape only a well-mixed drink could provide. I spun the bottle in my hands again and poured with flair, letting the remainder of its crystal contents arc high into the air before splashing down into the awaiting glasses.

"Whiskey on the rocks, please," came a voice smooth like polished stone. Glancing up, I met the gaze of a man in a suit so sharp it could slice through the haze of alcohol that filled the room. He stood before me, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that felt like a challenge.

"Coming right up," I replied, my fingers deftly selecting the bottle. I couldn't help but notice the way his eyes followed my every move, not lingering on the tattoos that snaked up my arms but instead staying focused, probing, as if trying to peel back the layers and uncover the memories I vowed to leave buried back in the Texas desert.

"Nice place you've got here," he remarked casually, as if we were two old friends catching up. "I hear the raspberry martini is quite the hit."

"Thanks," I said, keeping my tone neutral.

"Must have taken a lot of trial and error to perfect it," The man continued, leaning in ever so slightly, his dark eyes narrowing with a hint of something more than idle curiosity.

"Something like that," I managed, my grip on the shaker tightening as I handed him his drink.

He lifted the glass to his lips, keeping his gaze on me steady. "What's your secret?"

"It wouldn't be a secret anymore if I told you," I said, plastering a smile on my face. But as he drank, a shiver ran down my spine. The night at Sweet Cocktails suddenly seemed far longer, and the shadows in the corners of the room felt deeper than they had mere moments ago.

"Can't say I've seen you around here before," I said, my voice steady despite the thundering of my heart. "You a local?"

"Passing through," he replied, swirling his drink with a casual flick of his wrist. "Name's Burt. I've heard this place has the best martinis on the west coast."

"Whoever told you that wasn't lying," I shot back, tucking a stray lock of my long dark hair behind my ear and willing my hands not to tremble.

"Especially if they're made by Raya Kinkaid, from what I gather."

"Word travels fast," I quipped, leaning against the bar, my fingers absently polishing a glass that didn't need cleaning. "Question is, why didn't you order one?"

The man's lips curved into a smile, reminding me of the slither of a rattlesnake.

"I preferred to check out the person responsible for everyone's guilty pleasure."

The hairs on the back of my arms bristled, and I cleared my throat.

"Please excuse me, I've got other customers."

"Of course," he said, but there was a weight to his words that lingered like the scent of heavy cologne in an empty room.

Turning to other patrons, I busied myself with orders and laughter, letting the rhythm of the bar soothe the unease that had settled in my chest. But every time I glanced back at Burt, there he sat, observing, waiting.

The night waned, and after last call, I tossed my apron aside and slipped out the back door into the alley. The cool air was a slap to my senses, and I welcomed it. I needed to clear my head, to shake the feeling of being watched.

"Raya Kinkaid," a voice echoed off the brick walls, sending a jolt through me.

Burt stepped out from the shadows, the dim light glinting off his badge. "FBI. I'm Agent Burt Stamford."

I stumbled backward, my hand searching for the wall to steady myself. "What do you want?"

"Let's talk about those raspberries you're using to make your martinis, shall we?" He advanced, each step measured and deliberate.

"Look, if this is about some health code violation…"

"Cut the crap, Raya." His tone was sharp now, no longer the playful banter from before. "I know about your little forays onto Evans' land. I'm also aware of your...colorful history in Texas."

My blood ran cold. "That's in the past. And what do you mean my forays onto Evans' land? What land are you talking about? Have you been following me?"

"Don't play dumb with me, little girl. Nothing stays buried forever," Burt said, and the threat in his voice was unmistakable. "But I'm willing to overlook certain indiscretions if you help me."

"Help you with what?" I asked, though I already dreaded the answer.

"Maxwell Evans," he replied. "Or at least that's what he's calling himself these days. He owns the private land on which you've been trespassing to collect your signature fruit."

"What?" I gasped, clutching a hand to my chest. "I've been trespassing? I didn't know, I swear! I discovered the raspberry bushes one day while hiking in the woods! I thought they were just growing wild!"

Burt chuckled and then spat onto the pavement. "Yeah, right. Even if you are telling the truth, no one would believe you once they learn who you really are."

"What do you want from me?" I asked, leaning back against the rough bricks, wishing they'd fall away to reveal some secret escape.

"Like I said," Burt continued, "Maxwell Evans, the landowner. I know he wouldn't be happy to learn that you've not only been sneaking onto his private property, but also making money off his fruit. Let's just say there's more to him than reclusive billionaire antics. The FBI has their finger on him, and I need someone on the inside."

"Blackmail isn't my style," I retorted, but the resolve in my words faltered under the gravity of his proposal.

"It's not blackmail; it's an opportunity." Burt's eyes bore into me. "Get close to Evans. Find out what he's hiding. I want to know who's in his inner circle, who he does business with, where all his money really comes from. Get me the intel I want, and your secret stays safe."

"Or?"

"Or Sweet Cocktails loses its star bartender to a scandal. I suspect the media would have a feeding frenzy with what I know. Can't you just see your photo plastered all over the entertainment rags?"

"Dammit," I muttered under my breath. My mind raced, but the path forward was as clear as the gin in the bottles behind the bar.

"Fine," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "I'll do it."

"Smart choice." Burt's lips curled into a semblance of a smile. "Welcome to the game, Raya. It's going to be one hell of a ride."

I attempted a deep breath, willing myself to remain calm. I'd been through worse, after all. But the alley was a cold slap of reality, the stench of garbage a stark contrast to the lingering scent of raspberries on my hands. Burt's words hung in the air like the low fog, chilling and omnipresent, a reminder that no matter how far I ran, my past would always be there like a hidden mine. One misstep was all it would take, and the beautiful new life I'd work so hard to create would go up in smoke.

I wrapped my arms around myself, not just for warmth but as a shield against the vulnerability that threatened to spill over.

"An opportunity," Burt had called it, his voice echoing off the brick walls, mocking me with a choice that felt more like a chokehold. To get intel on Maxwell Evans—an elusive and potentially dangerous man—or watch my carefully constructed life crumble? My past was a Pandora's box I couldn't afford to open.

"Fine," I spat, lifting my chin to meet the secret service agent squarely in the eye. "But if I do this, it's on my terms. You keep your distance, and my past stays buried." The words were a lifeline I clung to, as if I had a semblance of control in a situation spiraling away from me.

"Of course," Burt replied smoothly with a smile that set off alarm bells in my head. But what choice did I have?

"And when this is over," I continued, taking a step forward, ready for this conversation to be over. "We're done. I give you what you want, and then you disappear from my life."

"Understood." His smile didn't reach his eyes. It never did with men like him.

As I turned to leave, my mind raced with plans and contingencies. I wasn't just Raya the bartender anymore; I was Raya the spy. A role I never auditioned for but one that had been thrust upon me. And if I wanted to survive, I'd have to play it better than I ever shook a martini. I'd need to be sharp, savvy, and seductive. This was a high-stakes game, one that could either free me from my past at last or entangle me further in its thorny vines. I could do this; I had to believe that. For now, though, I had to push aside the gnawing fear tempting me to flee and never look back. Except then when would I ever be able to stop running? No, I'd come far enough, established a decent life here. California was my home now, and I was determined to stay. If they wanted a show, I'd give them one to remember.

"Game on, Maxwell Evans," I murmured to myself as I stepped out into the night, the lights of Sweet Cocktails beckoning me back to a world where I was in control. And I wasn't about to give that up easily.

***

Pushing open the door to the apartment I shared with Trina, I found her curled up on the couch, a tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream cradled in her lap like a consolation prize. The glow from the TV flickered across her tear-stained cheeks as she watched some Hallmark movie about second chances. Ironic.

"Hey," I said softly, shutting the door behind me with a quiet click.

"Raya," she sniffled, looking up at me with red-rimmed eyes. "Slade...he cheated on me. I found a bunch of texts on his phone. He's been seeing some gorgeous redhead behind my back. Sending her dick pics and all that." Her voice broke on the last word, and she dug the spoon into the gooey green swirl with more force than necessary.

"Ah, Trin, I'm sorry," I murmured, kicking off my shoes. I headed to the adjacent kitchen where I dumped my bag on the small island and grabbed a spoon from the drawer before joining her on the sofa. I scooped up a bite of the cold dessert and placed it into my mouth as she paused the movie and turned to look at me.

"Something's eating you too, girl. I can tell. What is it?"

I shook my head, trying to deflect. "Tonight's about you, okay?" I said, offering a smile I hoped was reassuring. "Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself."

She searched my face, knowing there was more I wasn't saying, but she nodded, pressing play again and scooting closer. We sat there, two women bearing separate burdens but at least there was solace in knowing we weren't entirely alone.

The spoon clinked against the bowl as Trina shoveled another heap of ice cream into her mouth, her eyes glued to the screen where love always found a way. I watched her for a moment, my own spoon idle between my fingers. My mind, though, was racing faster than the plot twists on the TV.

I'd slipped into this life at Sweet Cocktails like a shadow blending into the night, but now the stakes were changing. Maxwell Evans, the name alone had a weight to it, a power that seemed to reverberate through the very walls of the bar every Wednesday night. The whispers about him were laced with fear and admiration—gorgeous, untouchable, a man shrouded in mystery. I'd never met him before, but come next Wednesday, our worlds would collide for the first time. I'd never worked the Wednesday night shift before and had been surprised at finding my name on the schedule. Burt's handiwork, no doubt. He'd probably played my boss as well as me, maybe even threatened him with some of his own secrets for all I knew.

I chuckled dryly under my breath.

"Raya?" Trina's voice drew me back, and I realized I'd been staring into space. "You sure you're okay?"

"Sure," I lied smoothly. "Pass the ice cream."

Grabbing the container, I dipped my spoon in for another bite. I had heard Maxwell was guarded by his associates, a wall of muscle and silence that kept him insulated from the patrons. They reserved the VIP room, a sanctuary within the already exclusive haven of Sweet Cocktails. It was his fortress, and come Wednesday, I'd be one of the few allowed in. Another server, Cheyenne, once confided that all he ever ordered was a single martini. I wondered how a single drink could ever be enough for a man like that. Perhaps it was a statement, a testament to his self-control, or maybe he was a man who enjoyed routine. Regardless, that martini was going to be my ticket in, my chance to catch his eye. I just had to make it irresistible, lace my raspberry concoction with an extra layer of intrigue.

A shiver ran down my spine—not entirely unpleasant—as I imagined that first meeting. Would he see through me, or would the charm that had saved my skin more times than I cared to count hold up against his penetrating eyes? The thought made my heart beat a staccato rhythm against my ribs.

"Wednesday," I whispered to myself, setting the spoon down, my appetite gone.

"Did you say something?" Trina asked, pausing the movie and wiping her eyes.

"Nothing important," I reassured her, mustering a smile. "Just thinking about work."

"Ugh, work," she groaned, playing the movie again. "Don't remind me. With how much I've been crying, I'm sure I'm gonna look like hell when I show up tomorrow."

"Just add extra eyeliner and no one will know the difference," I said with a wave of my hand. "Besides, you're gorgeous. Don't sell yourself short just because your man can't keep his dick in his pants. It has nothing to do with you."

Trina sighed and nestled back into the sofa cushions. "I guess. Thanks, Raya. I'm so glad you moved in with me after Lacey decided to up and get hitched to some dude she met in Vegas. I heard from her just today, in fact. She loves it there and they're trying for a baby."

"Wow, that's awesome," I said, nodding. I hadn't met Lacey but felt certain that any of friend of Trina's would be a friend of mine, too. Rising, I took the empty ice cream carton and our spoons into the kitchen, grounding myself in the here and now with the mundane task.

"Will you be okay if I crash?" I asked after I'd cleaned up.

"Yeah," said Trina with a sigh. "I'm just gonna finish this show. Maybe I'll watch another one and let Hallmark lull me to sleep tonight with the idea that happy endings really do happen sometimes."

"They do," I said firmly. "We just have to hold onto our dreams and not let anyone get in the way of making them come true."

But as I walked down the hall to the bathroom, I hoped I could believe my own words. Somehow, I felt they were about to be put to the test more than ever.