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Harwood Restaurant Heir Spotted Blind Drunk at Brunch in City

The article is from today. There’s a photo of Nick through a restaurant window, tipping the last of a mimosa into his mouth. He doesn’t lookblind drunk. Two people, a man and a woman, sit with him. I think I recognize them from the culinary magazines I bought during my research. They’re local restauranteurs.

I scan down the paragraphs. I’ve read hundreds of articles like this by now, but my insides still churn. It’s uncanny how similar these articles are to the hit pieces published about my dad around the time we lost everything.

Unstable Businessman Frank Hayes Drunk at Dinner with Partners

The paparazzi had taken a picture of him using a long-focus lens through a tiny window. All because one of his partners posted online that Frank Hayes was losing it, that he was the reason their company was failing. It was a lie, of course, but by the time the lawsuit settled, no one cared, and his company was bankrupt.

In Nick’s photo, he looks happy. Enjoying brunch with friends, like anyone else would do on a Saturday. His jeans and black t-shirt are clean, presentable. His stubble is gone—he shaved this morning. The only parts of him that screambad boyare his tattoos. A floral sleeve on his right arm, and something that looks like a chef’s knife on his left.

There’s a tug in my stomach. I wonder how dark Nick’s sky is, how hot his lightning.

I wonder if his is the same as mine.

I’m impulsive again. Before I know what I’m doing—before I can stop to think about how unprofessional it might be—I’m picking up my phone.

Chapter 6

Nick

Saturday and Sunday are for working in the kitchen, going to the gym, and the weird, bright feeling I get when my phone lights up and her name is on the screen.

Sienna, 2:48 PM

Enjoy your mimosas this morning?

Nick

Well, well, well. Someone has a Google alert set for my name.

Just doing my job, Mr. Harwood.

Looked like a fun brunch.

I had TWO mimosas. Shocking, I know.

I thought you were going to cut back on reckless indulgences.

Hmm. I don’t remember you defining “reckless indulgences” in our meeting, Ms. Hayes.

One drink is an indulgence, two is reckless, three is dangerous.

What about four?

Certain death.

Well, shit.

If you stick to the plan, you’ll be able to enjoy brunches again.

Is that a promise?

It’s a promise.

Nick, 6:03 PM

Work-related question: