Dark Hearts (Light in the Dark 3)

Now, because I turned her down I have to deal with her attitude.

How is that fair?

I get straight to work making orders and cleaning dishes.

There’s almost always something to do at W.T.F., and I love that fact. I hate sitting around idly. I get bored easily. I need to be doing something.

Eli breezes in at some point, leaving a trail of glitter behind him as he goes.

“What happened to you?” I ask, wiping down the wood bar top. “You look like a fairy sneezed on you.”

Eli shakes his head, spraying more glitter across the clean counter. I groan. That glitter is going to be here until the end of time.

“It’s just my fabulousness manifesting,” he responds.

“Mhmm,” I hum, wiping the glitter away with a damp rag.

Eli slides onto one of the barstools. “Get me my usual.”

“Drinking on the job?” I raise a brow as I grab a glass.

“I own the place. I can do whatever I want,” he objects.

I slide his drink across to him and he slurps it down like it’s water on a hot summer’s day and not whiskey.

“So, I was thinking,” he begins, and I suppress a groan. Thinking and Eli never go well together. “Maybe we should have theme nights.”

“Theme nights?” This can’t be going anywhere good.

“Yeah, like one night is boa night.”

“Boas?” Like the snake?

“Like the pink feathery boas,” he says, exasperated. “You come in wearing one and get a free drink. Another night could be …” He

taps his lip as he thinks, and I notice his nails are painted yellow. “Silly hat night and—”

“You wear a silly hat,” I finish for him, suppressing the urge to roll my eyes. “I got it.” I lay my hands flat on the bar. “Those are all dumb ideas and you know it.”

His shoulders sag. “I know. But I’m trying to get new people in the door.”

“Maybe you should start hiring bands and local artists.” I point to the stage. “Open mic Friday nights are a hit.”

“A band might be cool,” he agrees. “But I don’t think anyone is going to want to watch someone paint. That’s boring.”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“But that might work. Yeah, it just might. Thanks, Kensy.” He salutes me before sliding off the stool and heading to his back office.

“It’s Jace!” I call after him, but he’s too busy mumbling to himself to hear me.

I know that he knows my name is Jace but instead he insists on calling me Kensy—a nickname he’s given me based on my last name.

I like to pretend I’m not a Kensington so his constant reminder of my heritage is like a slap to the face.

I know he doesn’t mean it that way, but that fact doesn’t ease the sting.

“Your girlfriend is here,” Matilda huffs, purposely bumping into me as she passes.