Chapter 30

MELODY

We arein a nice bar with beautiful vintage decor, notthe placethey had initially picked.

After going back and forth, they opted against French food and went for a venue witha large variety ofdrinks and grilled food.

The place is noisy––that's never been my thing––but the food is good.

The staff put two tables together so we could all sit together, and now I'm stuck between Emile and the woman I met in the restroom.

Joanna.

She doesn't interact with me, focusing only on the mannext toher while Emile chats with everybody.

That's not all.

It's hard to walk away from the table as the space is narrow, and our backs face the windows.

I do it at some point when I need to use the bathroom, but the process is complicated. More than one person has to slide their chairs closer to the table so I can squeeze past them.

The second time I do it, Ihave toask Joanna to accommodate me.

She is not the happiest woman in the group, but she does it nonetheless.

She still can't forget I was up to no good an hour or so ago.

This time, I linger at the bar after using the bathroom, toying withthe idea ofordering a drink and sitting there alone when a new group of people swoops in.

The place is dimly lit, most lights glowing around the bar and over the tables.

"What can I get you?" the bartender asks as I swivel my head and glance around the bar, not knowing what to do.

"Um… A glass of water, please."

"Sure," the man says before pulling away.

The new group stalls, perhaps waiting for the hostess.

They're mostly men and only a few women.

The hostess signals them to follow her.

A few waitersstand by the table, waiting for the clients to claim their seats and place their orders.

Someof themen are rough-looking. They wear blazers over their burly figures and sport buzz cuts.

The women have long dark hair, red lips, and plenty of eyeliner around their eyes.

They're sexy, they know it, and they have no problem flaunting it.

"Here is your water," the bartender says behind me, and Ipull mygaze away from the group.

"Thank you."

I wrap my fingers around the ice-cold water, bring it to my lips, andtake aswig.

"Is everything all right?"Emile asks behind me, and despite knowing it's him because of his unmistakable accent, I'm still startled.

"Oh, I didn't want to scare you," he says, his hand sliding up my back.

Goosebumps grow down my arms, yet his touch feels like an invasion more than pleasure.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't aware you left the table. Is everything all right?"heasks.

"Yes, everything is fine," I say, my eyes flying straight to the entrance where a fewlargestrides bring in the last man I thought I'd see tonight.

My heart climbs up my chest, threatening to fall out.

Jax London looks precisely the same. He wears the same clothes and shoes, has the same jewelry, and flashes the same sexy smile.

Only it's not addressed to me.

It's not addressed to anyone since he walks into the place alone.

As strange as it sounds, he doesn't look around as if he's not interested in his surroundings.

He is either aware I'm at the bar. Or he knowsexactlywhere he's going.

The hostess makes a beeline for him, and the second she realizes it's him, she gives him a soft nod and gestures toward the table where the other men and women sit.

Oh.He's a regular at this place, and everybody seems to knowhim.

Lucky me.

But something doesn't feel right.

Walking in, going straight to the table, and not even glancing at the bar is beyond suspicious.

Every fiber of my being tells me he is here for me.

I don't believe in coincidences, yet nothing in his behavior suggests that.

He walks andtalks normallyand seems to be the boss off the people at the table. All older than him, they show him reverence.

The women fawn over him, and one of them makes room for him next to her––I notice with dismay.

"Do you want me to take your water to the table?" Emile asks, and I shift a blank gaze to him.

I completely forgot about Emile.

Oh, Emile.

That Emile.

Shit.

Emile wasn't supposed to be here with me. Or maybe the other way around.

Still… This is not me having sex with Emile.

Mm–hmm.

And arguably, the brunette sticking her chest out in front of Jax London does not want to have sex with him either.

Sure.

"Yes, please," I say sweetly, giving him something to do. "I need to use the bathroom again. I have a small bladder," I joke, but he doesn't get my joke.

Instead, he picks up my water and walks to the table, where Joanna gives him a harsh look, which he seems oblivious to.

Things are more complicated than I thought. And spending some time in the restroom won't simplify them, but at least I get a moment alone.

I dash to the back of the bar, almost toppling a server who is exiting the kitchen with a huge tray of food off his feet.

I apologize profusely and bolt to the restroom.

The door closes over the rest of the world, and my shoulders meet the wooden frame as I run a hand over my hair.

"What the fuck?" I say quietly, sweating again.

I'm always wet, damp, or covered in sweat when he's around.

I blot my brow with tissue paper before pushing off the door and checking my face in the mirror.

I look all right, considering.

There's not much time to inspect much else when someone knocks on the door.

Fuck.

I toss the piece of paper in the garbage and wash my hands.

"Just a moment," Isay loudly.

The person on the other side of the door stays quiet as I spin around, check the back of my dress, run my fingers through my hair, remove a speck of lipstick from the corner of my mouth, and walk to the exit.

I slide the door open, expecting to see one of the patrons.

Joanna is waiting for me with her arms folded over her chest and a lifted eyebrow.

"Oh, you…" I say, unpleasantly surprised.

Nothing in her demeanor tells me she's here to pee.

"I know what you're up to," she says, uncrossing her arms.

She strides past me and heads straight to the sink, where she turns on the water and washes her hands.

"Excuse me?" I bark.

My frustration hardly bothers her as she holds my gaze in the mirror.

"You were with another man at the art event."

"No, I wasn't."

"Yes, you were."

I plop my hands on my hips.

"What's your point?"

She spins around and shoots me a malicious look.

"You shouldn't mess with his head if you're not interested in him."

"Excuse me?"

I close the space between us.

"Are you his friend? Lover? Sister? Mother?"

She waves me off, spins to the toilet, and lifts the lid before moving her focus back to me.

"He came here for you."

"Here?" I ask incredulously. "You mean this bar?" I mock.

"Here in New York."

"Oh, my… You can't be serious. Are you blind? Do you even know this man?"

"We're friends."

"Does he know you're into him?"

"I'm not into him."

"Sure. Whatever you say."

"I'm not.We broke up six months ago and both moved on."

My mouth falls open, my smile completely gone.

"Who broke up with whom? He did?"

"We both did."

"I don't believe you. And why would you still spend time withhim?"

"Because we're friends. As I said before…"

Oh, fuck no.

This is the most messed up story I've ever heard.

When I thought I had itbad, here comes this story.

This woman, Joanna, puts herself through hell for this man.It must've been a long-distance relationship, and he must've played the field on both sides of the Atlantic.

He continues to do that, and she can't see him for who he is?

What kind of man does that to a woman he has slept with?

And why can't she let go of him?

Is he that good in bed?

Has he showered her with his attention?

Was she attracted by his good manners?

Whatmade her be with him in the first place? Andwhy is she looking out for him?

He treated her so poorly.

"Why didn't you tell him?" I ask.

She turns to stone while I continue.

"Yes. Why didn't you tellhimI was with another man?"

She presses her lips together, refusing to answer.

"Do you know why?" I say.

Her eyebrows move, yet her expression remains frozen.

"You didn't want him to know you were still into him. You still hoped he'd come back to you. How did you think that would happen?"

"That's not your business."

"No, it's not. As much as my life is not your business either. Do yourself a favor and forget about this guy. He's not interested in you—a twelve-year-old could see it. Stop wasting your time."

She doesn't say a thing.

It doesn't matter what I say––especially what I say. Nothing will make her change her mind.

"I need to use the bathroom," she says, pointing to the toilet.

"Be my guest," I say, heading to the door, filled with disappointment for her and me.