Everything But Love

Elena Morrison had served a thousand drinks to a thousand forgettable faces, but the man in the corner booth with storm-gray eyes and a tumbler of scotch he never drank would change her life forever.

She just didn't know it yet.

"Ellie! Table seven needs another round!" Ruby's voice cut through the low jazz music that filled The Velvet Room, pulling Elena's attention away from the mysterious stranger who'd been occupying booth twelve for the past hour.

"On it," Elena called back, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear as she loaded her tray with martinis. The Wednesday night crowd was thinner than usual, which meant fewer tips, which meant she'd be short on this month's payment to St. Catherine's Hospital. Again.

She pushed the thought away. Worry wouldn't change the numbers in her bank account.

The Velvet Room wasn't like the dive bars she'd worked at before. Everything here screamed expensive-from the mahogany paneling to the velvet booths to the clientele who thought nothing of dropping three hundred dollars on a bottle of wine. Elena had been lucky to land this job six months ago. The tips were better, even if the customers were more demanding.

She delivered the martinis to table seven-three men in identical navy suits discussing a merger-and made her way back to the bar. Her eyes, traitor that they were, drifted to booth twelve again.

He was still there. Still watching.

"Girl, if you don't go talk to Mr. Tall, Dark, and Brooding, I will," Ruby said, appearing at her elbow with a tray of empty glasses. Her best friend's dark eyes sparkled with mischief. "He's been staring at you all night."

"He's been staring at his phone," Elena corrected, though that wasn't entirely true. Every time she'd glanced his way, she'd caught him looking at her. Not in the leering way some men did, but with an intensity that made her skin prickle with awareness.

"His untouched scotch says otherwise. That's a two-hundred-dollar pour sitting there getting warm." Ruby leaned against the bar, studying the man with the practiced eye of someone who'd been bartending for a decade. "Custom suit. Rolex, not a knockoff. Confidence that comes from money, not arrogance. And he's alone on a Wednesday night, which means either he's hiding from someone or looking for someone."

"Amateur psychiatry isn't part of our job description."

"No, but reading people is. And that man is readable as a billboard, honey. He wants you to come over."

Elena shook her head, but she was already preparing a fresh scotch-Macallan 25, the same expensive single malt he'd ordered when he first arrived. Her hands moved on autopilot, muscle memory from countless pours, while her mind raced with reasons why she shouldn't care about the stranger in booth twelve.

She had enough complications in her life. Ollie's next treatment was in three days, and she was still two thousand dollars short. Her landlord had already given her an extension on rent. Her car was