Chapter Three

Angel

It was well after midnight when the phone in my penthouse suite at the Montage rang, cutting through the stillness like a knife. My heart gave a small, irritated jolt—wasn't the world supposed to let me have at least one night of peace? I'd barely had time to kick off my shoes since getting back from the bar. Sighing, I reached for the phone, half-expecting it to be Miles with another last-minute change to my schedule.

"Miss Bennett?" The voice on the other end was professional, with that carefully cultivated tone of hospitality workers who dealt with the rich and famous on a regular basis. "This is the front desk. We have someone here who found your purse and would like to return it to you personally."

My pulse quickened, the irritation morphing into something closer to anxiety. My purse. I had been so worked up after leaving Sunset Vines that I'd completely forgotten about it. The weight of the situation hit me all at once—inside that purse was my wallet, my ID, and the keys to the carefully constructed life I'd spent years building. If the wrong person had found it…

"Thank you," I said, my voice a little more clipped than usual. "I'll be right down."

I hung up the phone and took a deep breath, trying to calm the flurry of emotions that had suddenly burst to life inside me. This wasn't like me. I was always so careful, always so controlled. What was it about that bartender, that had made me lose my cool?

Bowie…Even now, his name made my skin prickle with a strange combination of annoyance and…something else I wasn't ready to name. He had been so rude, so unnecessarily judgmental. It didn't matter that he wasn't aware of who I really was. It was the principle of the thing. What right did the guy have to make blanket assumptions about famous people he didn't personally know? And yet he'd been so sweet and funny at first.

Slipping my shoes back on, I left the suite and walked towards the elevator, feeling that maybe I had overreacted. Maybe I shouldn't have let his comments get under my skin. After all, he was just a bartender with a chip on his shoulder, right?

But it wasn't just about him. When you live your life in the public eye, every little crack in your armor feels like a gaping wound. I had spent so much time building this fortress around myself, and in one careless moment, it almost came crashing down. I'd learned the hard way that the line between public and private is sacred, a barrier that must remain intact if I was to navigate the treacherous waters of celebrity. Had some benevolent soul not been there to scoop up my belongings, the contents of that purse—my wallet, my real identity—could have been pilfered and scattered like leaves in the wind.

I stepped into the elevator, trying to push the thoughts from my mind. The soft, luxurious carpet muffled my footsteps, and I leaned against the wall, watching the numbers light up one by one as I descended. I was alone, for now, but as the elevator reached the fourth floor, it stopped, and the doors slid open to reveal a couple, leaning on each other and giggling like school kids.

The woman stumbled into the elevator, her high heels catching on the edge of the carpet, and the man followed, his face flushed with the telltale signs of too much wine. She wore a sparkling sequined evening gown that looked like it cost more than my first car, and on her hand, a diamond ring caught the light, glinting with an intensity that made me blink.

I watched them out of the corner of my eye as they leaned into each other, laughing about something that only they understood. They were drunk, happy, and blissfully unaware of anything but each other. I felt a pang of something—envy, probably—as I watched them. I couldn't remember the last time I had been that carefree, that in love. Not that I hadn't tried. There had been men, of course, but none of them ever stuck around. They always seemed so interested in the idea of Angel, pop star extraordinaire, but when they got to know the person behind the fame, Angie Bennett with her scarred face and shattered heart, they found her too closed off, too damaged.

The elevator dinged, and I stepped out into the lobby, grateful for the change of scenery. The couple stayed behind, still lost in their own world, and I walked briskly towards the front desk, scanning the room for whoever had found my purse. My gaze landed on a familiar figure, and my heart did a strange little flip-flop.

Bowie.

He was standing near the reception desk, my purse held loosely in his hand. I stopped in my tracks, my mind struggling to process what I was seeing. Of all the people who could have found it, it had to be him. The universe, it seemed, had a wicked sense of humor.

He saw me and raised a hand in a small, awkward wave. For a moment, I considered turning around and walking away, but that wasn't an option. My purse was in his hands, and I needed it back. Besides, it was just a purse. I could handle this.

I walked over, trying to keep my expression neutral. "You found my purse," I said, more as a statement than a question.

He nodded, holding it out to me.

"I noticed you dropped this as you left," he said, his voice low. "Made sure no one else got their hands on it first."

"Thank you." The words felt inadequate, hollow even, but they're all I could muster. I reached for the purse, my fingers brushing against his calloused hand—an unintentional intimacy that sent a shiver down my spine.

"Didn't look through it. The hotel confirmed your name, that's all," he assured me, his dark eyes not quite meeting mine.

I nodded, appreciative of his discretion. "That's...that's very kind. Not everyone would have bothered."

Turning, I meant to escape back to the safety of my suite, but his voice stopped me mid-step.

"Angie?"

My finger hovered above the elevator button, but his voice anchored me to the spot.

"Look, I owe you an apology," he continued, and I caught a tinge of something like regret in his tone. "I got carried away earlier, and that was out of line. You were right to call me out. Being judgmental about someone I don't even know...it's not who I want to be."

The lobby suddenly felt vast around us, the opulence a stark backdrop to such a raw moment of humility. I turned back to face him, studying the contours of his face shadowed by the dimmed lighting. His admission sparked a curiosity within me, and despite the earlier tension, I found myself softening just a fraction.

"Why does it matter so much?" I asked, genuinely puzzled. "You could've easily left my purse with the hotel staff and moved on."

He shifted uncomfortably, looking anywhere but at me. "I do feel bad about it, yes. But there's more to it. A bad review can devastate a small business like mine. Sunset Vines, it's everything I have, and my sister works there too. Lila wasn't on tonight, otherwise you could have met her."

I was surprised to hear that he actually owned the bar. Successful business owners of his sort in southern California rarely did any of the work themselves. There was a vulnerability in his confession, one that resonated with the guarded chambers of my own heart. I watched him, this man who unwittingly peeled back a layer of my own carefully constructed defenses, and the jumble of emotions weaving through me made my heart do a sudden flip-flop. It was an odd sensation, this flutter of comfort in his presence, especially after our heated exchange earlier. The notion that his bar could be his sole anchor piqued my interest.

"Sunset Vines is one of the top-rated wine bars in Orange County," I said. "Why do you act like it's all hanging by a thread? You're already a huge success."

Bowie's gaze darted to the ornate chandelier overhead before settling back on me. There was a flicker of something in his eyes, and he hesitated before responding. "You probably don't want to dive into my sob story. Trust me, it's nothing glamorous."

I shrugged. "I've got time," I said, more intrigued than I cared to admit. "Besides, what's sleep anyway? We can sleep when we're dead."

Bowie looked around the lobby, scanning the faces of those milling about with the wariness of a man who knew too well how quickly whispers travel. For a moment, he seemed less the confident bar owner and more a man grappling with ghosts.

"Let's not talk here," I found myself saying, the words slipping out before my mind could wrap around their implications. "Upstairs?"

"You sure?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow.

I nodded, leaning in to my reckless decision even though I knew I'd probably regret it later.

The elevator dinged open, and we stepped inside. The air between us crackled with unspoken possibilities as we ascended in silence.

"Here we are," I announced when the doors opened. I led him inside the suite, noting the way his eyes widened slightly as he took in the luxurious surroundings. The penthouse was extravagant, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of the city, but it was just another hotel room to me. I had been in so many of them over the years, they all started to blend together.

"Wow," he uttered, sweeping a gaze across the high ceilings and panoramic views of the city. "This is...incredible."

"It was an upgrade," I replied, downplaying the grandeur. "A perk from my company."

He paced the length of the room, fingertips grazing over the textured fabric of the throw pillows, a low whistle escaping his lips. "So, what is it that you do? International spy? Tech mogul? Or maybe..." A mischievous glint sparked in his dark eyes as he turned to face me and cleared his throat suggestively. "Something else?"

For a heartbeat, I feel the sting of irritation at his jest, an instinctive recoil tightening my chest. But then, his expression changed to one of chagrin.

"Sorry, that was out of line," he said, running his hand through his hair. "God, how many times can I put my foot in my mouth one evening?"

I laughed, shaking my head. "Don't worry about it, I'll try not to take offense this time."

In the silence that followed, our gazes locked, and I sensed the wheels turning behind his thoughtful expression. It was a dangerous game, this dance of disclosure that we were playing, and yet, I was enjoying the rhythm.

His mouth curved into a rueful half-smile, and a quiet chuckle rumbled from his throat. And just like that, the tension between us shifted, softening the edges of our interaction with the promise of something I couldn't name—yet.