Looking up, I froze.
A few feet away, there was a man with a black mask raised half to his face. His eyes were locked on me, looking as frozen as I felt.
My breath was caught in my throat, my muscles locked, everything about me held standstill as the man’s eyes slowly trailed down my body, before crawling back up again.
His brown hair was perfectly coiffed, looking like he’d just stepped out of an expensive salon moments before. His eyes were bright, cerulean blue, wide and clear as he looked at me. He had a sharp, defined jawline and when he swallowed, hard, I could see his Adam’s apple bob from across the room.
He strode across the room, slipping the black mask into his jacket pocket. A long strand of black satin hung from his pocket, stark against the matte gray of his suit.
This close, the man was taller than I thought he’d be—not quite a full foot taller than me, but near it. His eyes—so blue across the room—were near mesmerizing this close up, framed by thick, dark lashes. His lips were just shy of red, the burnt pink color accentuated by the way his tongue slipped from between them, gently running against the swell of his bottom lip.
Looking at the sharp planes of his face, my neck craning up he was so close, it was difficult to fathom why he was here. He was stupidly handsome. What would a man who looked like that, who presumably had money and wealth, be doing in a place like The Club?
I went to introduce myself. My voice was caught in my throat.
He beat me to it. “Walter,” he said, carefully watching my expression. He looked sharp, his eyes not narrowed but alert, like he was waiting for me to make a mistake.
I took a short breath, reminding myself that this was probably all just a weird fever dream anyway. “Arlo,” I replied.
Walter waited a beat, then tilted his head and grinned. His smile was wide, lips parting slowly to show white, straight teeth. He had a perfect smile.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
I bit down on my bottom lip, ignoring the way my traitorous mouth wanted to smile.
“Thanks,” I murmured. “Nice to meet you, too.”
If anything, his smile widened. I couldn’t stop myself from grinning back at him.
The waiter came by and wordlessly, Walter set my flute onto the tray and grabbed two new ones. I hadn’t even realized I’d finished my entire glass—my mouth felt dry, as if I hadn’t had a sip of anything all night.
“I haven’t seen you before,” Walter commented, his head tilting just slightly, eyes squinting as he scoured my face.
“No,” I said, swallowing a bundle of nerves. “I guess you haven’t.”
His eyebrows rose, eyes widening. “Tell me something about you.”
I took a sip, biding my time. There really should be handbook—what did I tell him? What was I supposed to be? The interview with the club guy—the Monsieur, they called him—had asked me a lot about me, and I’d answered it all honestly, so maybe this guy, this Walter, already had access to everything about me.
“I’m a Cancer?” I said.
Walter leaned forward. “Capricorn.”
I laughed, surprised. “I didn’t take you as someone to care about horoscopes.”
“Astrology,” he corrected, and then winced. “My assistant is—particularly invested.”
I considered him.
Indulging your assistant about silly things was one thing, but the soft look on his face when he mentioned it, the kindness in his smile and the crinkling of wrinkles around his eyes—something about him, even when his presence was overwhelming and domineering, seemed genuine and kind.
“I’m sort of nervous,” I admitted. I didn’t mean for the words to spill out, but they did. “Everything here is so—”
“Grand?”
“Much,” I finished.
“The extravagance appeals to most people.”
I glanced around the room. Mostly everyone was paired off, swaying closer and closer as the night drew on. “It’s beautiful. It’s just not really what I’m used to.”
“Perhaps,” he leaned in a little closer, tongue darting out of his mouth to swipe across the swell of his bottom lip. Unwittingly, I tracked the movement. “It’s time to change that.”
The quick inhale of air was audible even to me. His smile sharpened into something a little less sweet, a little more dangerous. I swallowed, unable to break his gaze, and lifted the champagne flute to my lips. I downed the rest of it in one long gulp.
His eyes fell to my lips, then my throat as I swallowed.
“Let me get you a new drink,” he murmured.
“Oh,” I glanced down. “I—think I’ve had enough for one night, actually.”
His lips pursed. “Then, please. Allow me something then.”
Walter took my empty glass and set both mine and his on a passing tray. Then, he reached out one hand.
Hesitating, I ignored the way my heart was hammering too fast in my chest. I slipped my hand into his.
His answering smile was bright and I couldn’t help but smile in response. His hand tightened around mine.
Walter maneuvered us through the room, sliding quickly past the other guests—no one paid us any attention, even glancing at us as I murmured “Excuse me,” quietly throughout the room.
Gently, he pushed open a door and gestured for me to go through.
The kitchen was bustling, waiters filling trays and pouring glasses. I hadn’t even realized there was food at the event, that there were this many servers—I once again contemplated the odds of their day job having some sort of stealth involved.
Walter dropped my hand. “Do you like tea?”
I nearly laughed. “Yeah,” I said, cocking my head to the side. “I do.”
“Good,” he grinned, and crossed the kitchen.
The servers mostly stepped out of his way. I leaned against the counter, watching Walter as he moved.
He moved fluidly, opening one cabinet and the next. If it wasn’t for his continual searching, the confidence he had in every movement would have had me convinced he had been here before and knew where everything was. He flipped on the kettle and pulled out a large green mug.
His face was smooth, but concentrated. He didn’t make outlandish movements or wink or anything that would have suggested he was putting on a show.
He eventually pulled out a loose-leaf filter and several containers of loose leaf. Then, instead of choosing one, he started to carefully pinch bits of different types and drop them into the teabag.
His hands were steady and the curve of his wrists, the long, thin fingers, the way he cradled the bag of tea he was comprising—it was a beautiful thing to watch. I had seen many people—too many people, really—try to make a bag of loose-leaf tea. It was almost always a mess. But Walter was careful, precise. He knew what he was doing.
When the kettle went off, Walter dropped the bag into the green mug and filled it nearly to the brim with hot water. Slowly, he slid it over to me.
“Be careful,” he warned, leaning on the island across from me. His forearms spread long across the granite and he clasped his hands together. “It’s hot.”
When the tea had steeped long enough, the color turning dark and Walter nodding his head at it in approval, I slowly lifted the mug. The warmth on my hands had me relaxing already, the smell of the tea just a little spicy and earthy.