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In that time, reckless indulgences go untouched. He puts his Lambos in the garage, shelves his thousand-dollar bottles, and stops posting Rolexes and Balenciaga online.

He does a few interviews where he announces his interest in spiritual maturity, implying that he’s ready to settle down.

We send him off to a country overseas for a month. There, he’ll supposedly do a lot of meditating, brush up on his spiritual practices, and return a changed man.

Nick’s frown deepens as I talk. Evening is coming on fast, and Café de Mario is in the transition between Happy Hour and dinner. I watch groups of well-dressed friends and couples enter the restaurant over Nick’s shoulder.

When I finish the overview, he grimaces at me.

“That’s the corniest plan ever.”

“Corny,” I concede, “but practical.”

I can’t tell whether he’s about to smile or scowl. “You really expect me to counter the lies about my lifestyle with even more lying?”

“Welcome to public relations, Mr. Harwood.”

“I don’t like it. I’d rather just tell the truth.”

“Me, too,” I tell him. “But the public doesn’t care about the truth. They care about thestory. The best we can do is present a story that’s as close to the truth as possible.”

Nick rubs at the stubble on his cheek. The bartender appears and sweeps away his empty glass, leaving a bowl of shiny, marinated olives in its wake. They’ve been doing this all afternoon; bringing him little things he didn’t order.

“Has anyone ever told a lie about you?” he asks.

“Of course,” I reply, folding my hands in front of me. My manicure is smooth and sharp, a set of talons.

“What was the lie?”

My mind goes to the voices of my dad’s business partners:if he’s not fit to run the company, it’s better for everyone if he resigns.But I should choose a less volcanic answer. Preferably one that doesn’t make me feel like I’m choking.

“A classmate in high school told everyone I slept with her boyfriend.”

Nickooohs, popping an olive into his mouth. “Did you?”

“No. That’s why it was a lie, Mr. Harwood.”

He huffs a laugh, picking up the papers on the bar and flipping through them. He licks his thumb before he turns the pages, a mannerism that’s so old-fashioned and out of character I almost laugh, too.

“I can’t go to another country for a month,” he says. “I’ve got things I’m working on.”

“What things?”

His dark gaze slides in my direction. I shrug one shoulder. It’s not like I need to know, but I’m curious. And he owes me—I answeredhisquestion.

“Fine,” he says after a beat. “Do you like food?”

It’s not the answer I expected. “I eat food every day.”

“Sure, but do youenjoyit? A great meal isn’t just for keeping yourself alive, you know.”

Everything I’ve read about Nick Harwood revolves around women, thrill-seeking, and alcohol. The idea that he might be something as natural and everyday as a foodie takes a second to compute.

“Let me guess.” I lean forward. “You’re about to tell me I should always order the most expensive thing on the menu?—”

“Not exactly.”

“—or that pizza made in a convection oven isn’t really pizza.”