The Billionaire's Flame

History Repeats Itself

The Sharpes stay at the restaurant for a long time—long enough for everyone else in the restaurant to notice them and start to whisper. Several customers at my other tables, as well as at the bar, ask me questions about the siblings and what they’re doing back in town; I feign ignorance as best I can and try to focus on my breathing.

Kieran's staring didn’t let up when he figured out who I was. If anything, it intensified further. I’d like to think it’s because of my breathtakingly good looks, but I doubt it. More likely, he’s remembering those bruises on my face—bruises that were all too similar to the ones on his own face, hence us both checking in on the other that day in the stairwell ten years ago.

Or maybe he spotted the scar on my face that wasn't there before—the burn that creeps up from the back of my neck, up my outer jawline, and ends just below my ear.

Once you see it, it’s pretty hard to un-see.

They’ve having dessert—pregnant Lindsay seems to have quite the voracious appetite—when Connor comes into the restaurant.

I’ve technically been dating Connor for almost ten years now, though “dating” is sort of a generous term for whatever we are. I know that he’s indulged in quite a few affairs with other women over that time, and I’ve dabbled in similar endeavors from time to time, though I was much better at hiding them from him. He’s never said he loved me, nor I him; it was never really about that for us. He saw in me a frightened girl and an opportunity to feel needed and powerful, and he took me in. Got me out of a bad situation and gave me a job at one of his restaurants—which eventually turned into a job here.

It isn’t pretty, but it’s necessary. With Mom sick, I need Connor now more than ever. And Connor gets off on being needed. Symbiotic relationship.

“Hey, baby,” Connor says when he reaches the bar, snaking a hand around my waist and pulling me in close to him. “Let’s get out of here.”

He’s drunk. I really hate when he’s drunk. It reminds me all too much of someone I used to know.

“I can’t,” I tell him, pulling away from him. The stink of tequila is making me feel queasy. “It’s Friday, remember?”

Friday nights are the one day a week that my best friend Brady and I take the stage at the Crimson Cavern and play music. We don’t actually get paid for it—which is pretty unfair, if you ask me, because we definitely draw in a crowd—but it’s a good opportunity for us to spotlight our stuff in a town hot spot, so we do it, anyway.

Connor doesn’t like Brady, nor does he like the “music thing” that I try to do on the side. He supported it early on, of course, because he knew how much it meant to me. That’s how we got the Friday night slot in the first place. Now he knows better than to take it away, but still tries to pull s**t like this from time to time.

“Forget the rock show bullshit,” Connor whines. His grip tightens against my waist. His fingers feel like claws. “Come and party the night away with your man.”

I’ve never thought of Connor as “my man,” nor do I intend to now. He’s always been just a little too slimy. His dark, beady eyes look like they belong on a snake or a lizard, and he slicks back his equally dark hair with far too much product. Even the way he dresses—in suits that are far cheaper than the one Kieran Sharpe is sporting a few dozen feet away—makes me cringe.

“I can’t,” I tell Connor, attempting to wriggle out of his grip. “Go have fun without me. Maybe I can catch up with you after the show.”

I won’t, of course. I’ll probably grab a drink with Brady at the bar here, then head home to check on my mom.

“You only have that show because of the kindness of my heart,” Connor growls at me. I’ve managed to wriggle out of his grasp, but he catches me by the arm, holding me close to him. I can’t believe he’s pulling this s**t in the middle of his own packed restaurant. He must really be drunk. “If I tell you to take a night off—”

“Is there a problem here?”

The voice comes from behind me. It’s the voice of the man whose hand I shook less than an hour ago. Kieran’s.

But it's also... not that voice. It's darker. More menacing.

Connor releases his ironclad hold on my wrist immediately, allowing me to slowly and sheepishly turn toward Kieran.

He looks even more menacing than he sounded.

It’s the first time I’ve seen him standing up close since high school. He’s got to be at least six-two—maybe six-three. He’s all muscle beneath that sharp, black suit, and even his jaw—which is clenched tightly shut—seems strong.

And he’s glaring at Connor with the ferocity of a f*****g animal.

It’s extremely hot.

“No problem here, Mr. Sharpe,” Connor says immediately. (How the hell does he know who Kieran is? Is he really that famous?) “How are you enjoying your experience at this establishment tonight?”

Kieran’s glare doesn’t lighten. When he speaks, his voice is still deep and intimidating, but with a cooler edge. “Enough to insist that you leave our excellent waitress alone.”

How stupid is it that, in the midst of this tension, I blush at hearing him call me “excellent?”

Pretty stupid.

Connor laughs nervously. “I think you misunderstand, Mr. Sharpe. Emerson and I know each other very well. We—”

But he shuts immediately back up when Kieran uncrosses his arms and takes a very threatening step toward him.

“I’ll just… er… see you later, then, Emerson,” Connor stammers as he backs away from both me and Kieran. “Mr. Sharpe, I hope you enjoy the rest of your meal.”

And then he literally sprints out of his own restaurant.

I can’t help but laugh as I watch the door close behind him. My laugh fades pretty quickly, though, when I turn my gaze back onto Kieran.

He isn’t glaring at me, but the intensity of his gaze hasn’t lessened. He wants to know what that was about, I can tell; he just isn’t quite sure what to say.

“Thanks,” I say, which honestly isn’t very easy for me to say, since I don’t consider myself some damsel that needs rescuing. He really had no right to step in, even if it was pretty hot. “I’ll be right to your table with the check.”

He doesn’t seem remotely interested in the check. He sweeps his gaze up and down the length of me, lingering on my waist and wrist, where Connor grabbed me. “Did he hurt you?”

“No,” I say too quickly. “I’m fine.”

Do you need help?

No, thank you. Do you?

No.

Strange, how history repeats itself.