Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97592 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97592 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
“This might be a little overzealous of me, but do you think you can find some time tonight to join my dinner?”
“Me? Join your business dinner?”
“Yes, you. I made sure I secured a table for ten to make room for you just in case.” He smiles, and I have to glance down at my feet to calm my now-racing heart. His eyes look particularly green tonight, only flaking golden in the light.
For as lost as I generally feel trying to make small and flirtatious talk when we’re on dates, I can’t deny that he affects me.
His confidence in himself, in me, in us. It’s powerful.
But I’m always too nervous to know what to do with it.
Anxiety with someone new has to be normal, though, right? Going on dates, putting yourself out there, sharing parts of yourself, your life, with someone else takes trust and the willingness to be vulnerable. And it doesn’t take a board-certified therapist to understand why being vulnerable and trusting someone doesn’t come easy for me, especially with someone I still don’t know all that much about.
“Wow, that’s really sweet of you, Gavin, but I don’t want to interrupt—”
“Trust me, you won’t be interrupting.” He cuts me off. “It’d be nice to spend some time with you. Maybe even grab a drink after your shift?”
“Okay…well…I can’t make any promises because, you know—” I pause and glance around the restaurant “—things are a little busy. But I’ll try to stop by and say hello for a few minutes.”
“You know where I’ll be,” he says with a sexy smirk. “Come find me when you get a little free time.”
I nod, and Gavin presses one more soft kiss to my cheek before walking in the direction of the ten-top table my hostess-with-the-mostest Mandy is currently seating.
I don’t waste any time scrambling toward the kitchen and shoving through the swinging doors.
Metal pans clashing, food sizzling as it’s tossed into skillets, and orders being called out in succinct waves are all playing in a symphony led by Vinny himself.
He stands behind a stove, his chef jacket firmly in place and his eyes focused on a large piece of steak he’s rubbing seasoning into with rough hands.
“You good, Vin?” I call out, and he glances up, meeting my eyes through the stainless-steel shelving between us.
“We’re good.”
“Need anything from me?”
“Can you check in on the couple at forty-two?” He flashes a knowing grin at me. “Five-star treatment.”
Just like Manhattan, our restaurant is a melting pot of people on any given night. But there are two types of patrons we go the extra mile to please—wealthy regulars with big influence and food critics. And it’s not because they’re more important than the average Joe or because their taste buds are more refined—it’s because they’re usually judgmental and picky as fuck.
Unfortunately, they also have the sway and social capital to put La Croisette under at any given time.
Playing favorites is part of the game. Everyone wants to be seen here, including celebrities, famous athletes, musicians, and the kind of rich people who vacation on their million-dollar yachts. And because of them and their big mouths, we get to stay in business for other people to enjoy the food too.
“Will do.”
Out of the kitchen, I head straight for table forty-two. I observe the other tables on my way, looking for plates in need of busing and drinks approaching empty. Part of my job is to organize the chaos, and the other part is to fill in the gaps in the Wizard’s curtain.
As far as the customer is concerned, there should be no need unaccounted for, no time spent waiting. But the waitstaff is human, so I provide a little magic.
I’m halfway across the restaurant when my gaze catches on a two-top and jumps back to a man I’ve come to recognize easily.
Noah sits by himself, staring down at the menu, and for some insane reason, it’s like my heart skips a beat at the sight.
I think I’ve…missed him.
It’s dumb, so freaking dumb, but ever since our almost-kiss the night Grant broke his arm, I don’t need an imaginary Brooke to tell me just how great he is anymore. I have it figured out all on my own.
Grant carries around the little sloth Noah got for him like it’s his new best friend, taking him to kindergarten and sleeping with him at night and even asking for a separate plate of dinner for the furry friend.
And every time I see it in his backpack or tucked in his arm or at the fourth chair at our table, I think of Noah.
Of how he is with the boys. Of how he is with me.
I shake myself out of my thoughts and focus on the priority at hand—table forty-two. Vin asked me to give them the five-star treatment, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.