“Why are you bothering to tell me this, then? Why did you even come in here tonight?”
His face and jaw tensed, as if he suppressed himself from spitting out something bitter. “Because I couldn’t stay away.”
She wavered for a few seconds, confused. The memory of her mortification the other night swept over her once again, clearing her brain. “If you can’t stay away, you’re going to have to find another artist or move my work space.”
“Francesca, do not walk out on me again,” he said, his tone intimidating. Again, her feet wavered.
She barely grasped at her dignity sufficiently to make it out the door.
* * *
Several nights later, that empty ache still lingered, but Francesca had managed to compartmentalize it . . . contain it in her mind and spirit. It hurt the worst when her phone rang and she saw that it was Ian trying to contact her. It cost her more than she could put into words to ignore those calls.
It was a lot less burdensome to ignore her heartache on a rowdy Saturday night while waitressing at High Jinks. She was so busy, she had no opportunity to consider Ian or the painting or her regret as the lounge swung into high gear at about two o’clock in the morning. High Jinks was a popular last stop on the Wicker Park–Bucktown bar circuit. It catered to young urban professionals and older students. While many bars closed by two, three, or four, High Jinks stayed open until five on Saturday nights, serving devoted partiers and carousers. Saturdays always exhausted Francesca, and tested her patience, but she tried not to miss opportunities to work one; the tips were typically three times what she’d make on any other night of the week.
She set her tray down at the waitressing station and called out her order to the owner, Sheldon Hays, the older, frequently cantankerous, occasionally cuddly-as-a-teddy-bear owner, who was bartending tonight.
“You’re going to have to tell Anthony to hold them at the door,” she shouted over the loud music and the din of the crowd. “We’ve got to be at capacity.”
She took a sip of the club soda she kept at the station and leaned over the bar when Sheldon waved her in, as if he wanted to say something important. “I need you to run over to the corner and buy all the lemon juice they’ve got on the shelf,” he yelled, referring to the local convenience store that stayed open all night. “That idiot Mardock forgot to put lemon juice on the order, and I’m having a rush on sidecars.”
She sighed. Her feet were already killing her, and she didn’t treasure the idea of walking the required five blocks. Still . . . it’d be awesome to breathe the fresh autumn air for a few minutes and give her eardrums a break from the loud music . . .
She nodded at Sheldon and whipped off her apron. “Tell Cara to pick up my area?” she shouted.
Sheldon’s nod told her not to worry, he’d take care of everything. He handed her a couple twenties from the register, and she plunged through the dense crowd.
There were only four bottles of lemon juice left on the shelf of the convenience store. The sleepy-looking cashier roused himself enough to locate another bottle in the storage room. As she walked back to High Jinks a few minutes later, carrying her purchase, she noticed the sidewalk was crowded with people walking toward their cars and the El stop. Where are they all coming from? Francesca thought in confusion as she reached the block where High Jinks was located. She paused at the corner as she saw a couple dozen more people exit the bar, the heavy wood door slamming shut behind them.
“What’s going on at High Jinks?” she asked a passing trio of men.
“Fire in the storage room,” one of the men said, his sour tone making it clear he didn’t appreciate his late-night carousing being cut short prematurely for safety reasons.
“What?” Francesca called, but the men just passed her and kept walking. She rushed toward the bar, alarmed. She didn’t smell any smoke or hear any sirens. Their bouncer, Anthony, was nowhere in sight when she opened the door and peered inside the establishment.
No one was in sight.
She paused inside the entrance of the bar, staring, aghast. The bar, which had been jam-packed with customers just twenty minutes ago, was now completely empty and quiet. Had she just entered the twilight zone?
She noticed movement behind the bar. Much to her mounting amazement, she saw Sheldon calmly cleaning glasses.
“What the hell is going on, Sheldon?” she demanded as she approached. Surely he wouldn’t be standing there so nonchalantly if there were a dangerous fire in the back room?
Her boss glanced up at her and set down a beer glass. “I was waiting to make sure you got back okay,” he said, drying his hands on a towel. “I’ll just go to my office. Give you a little privacy.”
“But what—”
Sheldon pointed over her shoulder as if by way of explanation. Francesca spun around. She froze when she saw Ian sitting at one of the tables, his long legs bent before him. A large partition had blocked him from her view when she’d entered. Her heart did its typical bounce upon observing him. Even through her shock, she registered that he was wearing jeans and that there was a shadow of whiskers on his jaw. He looked very un-Ian-like, a little scruffy, a lot dangerous. . . . still sexy as hell. Had he been walking the streets alone again tonight?
He pinned her with his stare as he waited calmly.
“He wants to talk to you in private,” Sheldon said quietly from behind her. “He must want to a lot. I’m sorry if you don’t want to talk to him, but he’s not really the kind of man that a guy like me can refuse.”