I placed the bottle on the table carefully, making sure it didn’t make a sound against the glass surface.
I didn’t look at him.
I couldn’t.
If I met his eyes now, I might see something—recognition or suspicion—and my face would betray me.
I dipped my head slightly, a small bow, and turned to leave.
“Are you not gonna pour it in the glasses?”
His voice cut through the low music outside the curtain.
My body locked.
Heat crept up my spine. Slowly, I turned back around.
He was watching me.
Not casually.
Intently.
I stepped forward again and picked up the bottle. The glass felt colder now, slick beneath my fingers. I could feel his gaze on my face, heavy, unmoving.
My heart was pounding so hard I was scared the mask would shift with it.
Steady.
I tilted the bottle.
The whiskey s
