Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 64847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
As soon as the briefing ended, we fanned out to finish setting up our stations. Daniel checked his reflection in a silver pitcher, finger-combing his already perfect dark blond hair as he muttered, “Fuck my life. And fuck the goddamn halibut. I’m going to warn my customers to stay away from that shit.”
“Same.”
Once everything was set up, I paused and glanced around me. The one good thing I could say about the restaurant was that it looked great. It was meant to evoke the Italian countryside in the fall, so the color palette was heavy on golden yellow, forest green, and dark red, complemented by rich wood tones and soft, warm lighting.
I couldn’t imagine Tom Mason had asked for any of that, since he drove a neon yellow Lamborghini. But he must have given the designer he hired free rein, and a beautiful restaurant was created in spite of its tacky, nouveau riche owner.
Promptly at five sharp, the doors opened. Two minutes later, groups of people began arriving, just like every weekday. The restaurant was located on the edge of the financial district, so as soon as the workday ended, droves of junior-level office workers fled from their jobs, and a lot of them came here. It was the go-to place to grab a cocktail or a meal with coworkers, celebrate promotions or birthdays, and so on.
We were busy for the next couple of hours. Whenever Daniel and I ran into each other, usually while waiting for our food to come up in the kitchen, he regaled me with horror stories. “Did you see that party of ten that tied up two of my tables? They all wanted separate checks, of course, and when I added it all up, the tips come out to seven percent. Seven percent! What the fuck do they think I’m doing here, charity work? Cheap fuckers.” It went on and on.
Eventually, the younger office workers cleared out, and the second half of the evening began. Most senior executives didn’t run out the door at five sharp. Instead, they started filtering in between six and seven, either in pairs or in groups of three or four. We also drew a few tourists and locals during that part of the evening, since we were just a short walk from Telegraph Hill.
And for the past three weeks, the best part of my evening began around eight p.m. That was when one customer in particular usually showed up. This evening, Daniel spotted him before I did and whispered, “Here comes your sugar daddy.”
“Hardly.”
“He always asks to sit in your section and tips you, like, a hundred bucks on a fifty-dollar ticket. If that’s not a sugar daddy, what is?”
“Quit staring! You’re going to drive him away.” I turned my back to the door and the man in question, so I could take a moment to get myself together.
“Nothing could drive that man away. He wants you, dude. Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed the way he gawks at you when he thinks you’re not looking.”
“He doesn’t gawk.”
“What word do you prefer? Ogles? Drools? Lusts after? That last one’s two words, but it’s probably the most accurate.”
I ignored Daniel and went to the bar, where I requested a glass of pinot noir. That man was a creature of habit, and I had his order down pat.
By now, the hostess had seated him in his favorite booth, the one tucked away in a back corner. I took a deep breath and straightened my posture, and then I went to deliver his glass of wine.
He was watching me closely as I approached, and he was frowning slightly. That was new, and it immediately concerned me. But I pulled up a smile, and as I placed the wine in front of him, I said what I always did. “Welcome back, sir. Would you like your usual this evening?”
Unlike most of my regulars, I didn’t know his name. I usually got that information from the customers’ credit card receipts, but he always paid cash. He was also less than chatty, so it wasn’t like he’d ever introduced himself. In fact, at this point, usually all he’d do was nod. But this time, he hesitated.
For a moment, we just stared at each other. He was so handsome that it took my breath away. I assumed he was somewhere in his mid-forties, since his dark hair was shot through with a little gray. As always, he was dressed in an impeccable suit, which had to have been custom-made for him, since he was a huge bear of a man. In another life, he could have been a wrestler, or a bouncer, or maybe a bodyguard—there was a rough edge to him, despite all the obvious signs of his success. It was one of the things that made him so appealing.