I wasn't used to this feeling.
Not the attraction. That was familiar. Women had crossed my path in hundreds of forms—elegant, desperate, clever, coy. I'd indulged and discarded. Admired and moved on. I didn't believe in dwelling. I didn't believe in chasing.
But here I was—still thinking about the bartender with fire in her blood and ice in her veins.
Sofia.
She hadn't called. Hadn't texted. Hadn't used the number I left on that card.
It had been three nights. Three.
And every second since, I'd been playing our exchange over and over in my mind. Her eyes. Her voice. The sharp way she'd shut me down without flinching.
She intrigued me—and I hated being intrigued.
So I returned.
Same bar. Same seat.
And I made a call.
Not to her. To the manager.
The man's voice trembled when I asked him to step outside. I watched from the corner as he approached my booth with caution, wiping nonexistent sweat from his brow.
"I'd like Sofia to handle my table personally tonight," I said, calm but firm. "No substitutes."
He hesitated.
I leaned forward, letting my voice dip. "I assume that won't be a problem?"
"N-no, Mr. Blackwood. I'll let her know."
He scurried away like a man who knew the weight of names.
I waited, fingers drumming once against the mahogany table.
And then she appeared.
Like a storm wrapped in silk.
Sofia approached with that same composed stride, her hips swaying in time with her disinterest. She wore all black tonight—tight slacks, a sleek blouse, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Minimal makeup, but her lips—God, those lips—still bled red.
"You called in management?" she asked, arching a brow as she stopped at my table.
I smiled slowly. "I wanted to make sure I had your full attention."
She crossed her arms.
"You could've just asked."
"Would you have said yes?"
A pause. Then: "No."
"Exactly."
She didn't sit. Didn't lean forward like others did to flirt. She stood, unimpressed, arms folded, staring at me like I was a complicated wine label she didn't have time to read.
"I don't do table service. Not for anyone."
"Tonight you do," I said quietly.
"I'm not your waitress."
"You're right," I said, then looked up into her eyes. "You're the woman I'm trying very hard not to imagine outside this bar."
That earned a reaction. Barely. A twitch of her mouth. Not a smile. Not quite.
But it was there.
Sofia let out a slow breath, dropped her arms, and reached for the menu without asking. She slid it across the table to me.
"I'll be professional. Nothing more."
I leaned back, satisfied. "That's all I ask."
It wasn't. Not even close.
She took my drink order with clipped efficiency. Bourbon, again. No garnish. No flair. She delivered it herself, setting the glass down with precise elegance.
"I assume you'll want something more substantial eventually," she said, tone cool as ever. "We do have a limited kitchen after midnight."
I nodded. "Surprise me."
Her lips pressed together. "I don't do surprises."
"You already are one."
That earned a small scoff. "Don't think charming lines will get you anywhere, Mr. Blackwood."
"They already have."
She didn't reply.
She left.
And for the next few hours, she returned only when necessary. To refill. To ask about the meal. To clear a glass. All done with poise, distance, and a glint of veiled amusement in her eyes.
The more she resisted, the deeper I fell.
It wasn't just her looks—though they'd be enough to drive a lesser man mad. It was the way she moved like nothing touched her. Like she'd built herself from shards and refused to be held.
An ice queen.
But I liked the cold.
Because I could feel the fire underneath.
She passed my table again, and I caught her wrist—not tightly, not rudely. Just enough to still her.
She looked down at my hand, then at me.
"Careful," she said.
"I don't do careful."
She freed her wrist gently, without effort.
"Why me?" she asked suddenly, softly.
I blinked. "What?"
"You could have anyone. Why me?"
I studied her for a long beat.
And I told the truth.
"Because you don't want me."
Silence pulsed between us like a heartbeat.
She didn't deny it.
She didn't confirm it either.
Instead, she leaned down, just slightly—enough that I could smell the faint trace of vanilla and smoke in her hair.
"Desire isn't a reason," she murmured. "It's a warning."
Then she straightened and walked away again.
And I sat there, drink untouched, her words echoing like prophecy.
That was the moment I knew:
I wouldn't be able to walk away from Sofia. Not after this. Not after the way she refused to soften. She was a woman who dared to hold her ground in a world that begged her to kneel.
I didn't want to own her.
I wanted to unravel her.
To know what made her cold.
To touch what made her burn.
I stayed until closing. She never looked my way again.
But when I left, the bartender passed me a napkin.
No name. No message.
Just an address.
Written in her handwriting.
---
I stared at the napkin for a long time.
The ink was faint, written in a careful slant, no flourish, no smiley hearts—just numbers and a street that didn't appear on any high-profile registry in my mind.
Brooklyn.
A forgotten corner.
Nothing like the polished stage she danced on every night behind that bar.
I folded the napkin once, slid it into my coat pocket, and walked out into the night.
The city air had cooled, but something coiled warm and electric in my chest.
This wasn't a game anymore.
She knew what she was doing.
She wanted me to follow.
Or maybe she wanted me to fall.
I liked the danger in that.
The drive was quiet. No music. Just the hum of the engine and the sound of every second ticking closer to her.
I stopped outside a narrow apartment complex—red brick, three stories, one flickering lamp on the street. A sharp contrast to the world I knew. The world I owned.
I liked that too.
I checked the time.
1:02 a.m.
I should've turned back.
But I was already reaching for the door.
As I stepped out and looked up, the window on the third floor lit up.
And there she was.
Sofia.
Wearing nothing but a long black robe, hair unpinned, loose like shadows. She didn't smile. She didn't wave. She simply stared down at me like she'd been expecting this exact moment.
Then, slowly—deliberately—she reached up…
and drew the curtain shut.
---