All The Sides Of Mr. Grease

I was eighty percent sure Emily was about to commit a felony. The other twenty percent thought she was simply being dramatic. "Tell me again why we aren't robbing a bank?" Emily asked, sipping her margarita as though she were proposing a perfectly reasonable business strategy. I stared at her across the small round table tucked into the corner of the bar. She stared right back. "You know that's illegal, right?" "So is what our accountant called me this morning." A laugh escaped me before I could stop it. I dropped my forehead against the polished wood of the table anyway. The bar was exactly the kind of place I normally loved. Warm lighting. Exposed brick walls. A playlist that somehow managed to be trendy without being obnoxious. The low hum of conversation blended with the clink of glasses and occasional bursts of laughter. Usually, I found places like this comforting. Tonight, all I could think about were spreadsheets. And invoices. And funding projections. And the increasingly terrifying possibility that the company I'd spent years building might not survive another six months. "Don't put your head down," Emily said. "I live here now." "Sylvie." "I pay rent under this table." "You're being dramatic." I lifted my head. "You literally suggested armed robbery thirty seconds ago." Emily pointed her straw at me. "That was problem-solving." "That was prison." "Same thing. At least prison gives you free meals." I laughed despite myself. That was Emily's gift. No matter how stressed I was, no matter how close I felt to a complete breakdown, she could always make me laugh. Maybe that was why we'd survived this long. The company belonged to both of us now, but I'd started it alone. Every formula, every label design, every late night spent mixing ingredients in my tiny apartment kitchen felt deeply personal. Which meant every setback felt personal too. Emily's expression softened. "We'll figure it out." I looked away. The words should have reassured me. Instead, they made my chest ache. "I know." "You don't sound convinced." "I'm trying." She sighed. "We need investors." "I know." "We need them fast." "I know." "We needed them yesterday." I groaned. "I know." The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. Just heavy. Neither of us wanted to say what we were both thinking. The last investor pitch had gone nowhere. The one before that had gone even worse. Sales were steady, but steady wasn't enough anymore. We needed capital. And we were running out of time. Emily suddenly sat up straighter. "Oh." I frowned. "What?" "Oh." That tone never meant anything good. "What?" A grin spread across her face. "Two o'clock." I glanced around the room. "What am I looking at?" "Not around." Before I could stop her, she grabbed my chin and physically turned my head. My gaze landed on a man standing at the opposite end of the bar. And— oh. Okay. I understood. Dark hair, thick and slightly messy, like he'd run a hand through it one too many times and somehow made it look better instead of worse. The warm amber lighting caught hints of brown in it, softening the sharpness of his features. He was tall—easily over six feet—with broad shoulders that stretched the fabric of a fitted navy-blue shirt. But it was his face that held my attention. Strong jaw. Straight nose. High cheekbones. Even from across the room, I could tell that his eyes were green. Not the pale kind. It was the rich, deep green that stood out against his dark hair and lightly tanned skin. The kind of eyes people wrote songs about. Or made terrible decisions over. His sleeves were folded slightly below his elbows, revealing strong, tanned forearms and the edge of a tattoo winding around one arm. I couldn't make out the full design from where I sat, only dark ink disappearing beneath the rolled fabric. It looked intricate. Deliberate. The sort of tattoo that probably had a story behind it. He was leaning casually against the bar, one hand wrapped around a glass, laughing at something the bartender had said. The smile transformed him into something dangerous. That was the word that immediately came to mind. Pleasantly dangerous. Not because he looked intimidating. Because he looked charming. Which was significantly more dangerous. Emily let out a low whistle. "Now that should be illegal." I rolled my eyes. "You say that about every attractive man." "No." She shook her head seriously. "I reserve that statement for premium specimens." I nearly choked on my drink. "Premium specimens?" "Top shelf." "Please stop." "Luxury edition." "Emily." "Limited release." I covered my face. "Oh my God." "Fine." She leaned forward conspiratorially. "We need a nickname." "A nickname?" "Until we know his name." I glanced over again. It was a mistake. A very serious mistake. Because at that exact moment, he looked up and caught me staring. Heat rushed into my face so quickly it was almost painful. His mouth curved. Not smug, not arrogant, just amused. Like he'd caught me doing something adorable. Which somehow made it worse. My gaze instantly snapped to the glass in my hand. Emily gasped dramatically. "He smiled at you." "He did, didn’t he?" "He definitely smiled at you." "Please be quiet." "What do we call him?" "We're not calling him anything." "We absolutely are." I sighed. "Fine." Emily studied him thoughtfully. "What?" "Barbie." I stared at her. "Barbie?" "He's pretty." She shrugged. "That is a terrible nickname." "Ken?" "Worse." She pointed dramatically. "Mr. Perfect Jawline." "Too long." "Brooklyn Batman." I laughed. "That's actually kind of good." "I know." Before I could say anything else, a shadow fell across our table and Emily's eyes widened. Slowly, I looked up. Oh no.