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She leads me to a little table right beneath the open window to the kitchen. Heat lamps and flames draw my eye to where a young, handsome man with vibrant blue-green skin barks orders at several men and women in chef’s whites. I don’t get a good look at him, but I note sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular arms covered in tattoos. And of course I spot the eight tentacles in place of feet, several of which are currently being used to toss food over a hot stove or spray himself with a small bottle of water.

I catch a glimpse of a stern, square jawline and dark eyebrows creased above green eyes before he turns away. I hope I haven’t just made his staff’s day hell. From everything I’ve heard, Noah Wilson has a reputation for being a bit of a tyrant in the kitchen.

He’s younger than I expected. About my age, though it’s hard to tell exactly. I’m no expert on supes. He acts with the authority of someone who’s been doing this all his life, though.

“Can I get you something to drink?” the young waitress asks as I sit.

“A glass of white wine, please. Whatever you would recommend.”

My phone beeps.

She comes back a moment later, but I’m only half looking when she unscrews the bottle. I’m too busy staring down at the message I just got from Justin.

Justin: babe, not going to make it to Oz. So sorry. It must be late there. I’ll call you in the morning

It can’t be. I must be reading it wrong. But it doesn’t matter how many times I reread it, there’s only one way to interpret it. My boyfriend just let me know, on the day he was supposed to be arriving, by text, that he’s not coming on our romantic holiday. The one we’ve been planning for months.

“On second thought, maybe just leave the bottle,” I mumble to the waitress. I think I’m going to need it.

She asks for my order, and I haven’t even looked at the menu. “Fish of the day, please,” I say, taking a stab. Surely they have a fish of the day. I’m not even sure I’m hungry anymore.

She hesitates for a moment, and I think she’s about to tell me they don’t. But then she nods and trots off to the kitchen, leaving me to stew over what the hell is going on with Justin.

The gossip articles are wrong. Of course they are. There’s probably some very reasonable—maybe horrible—reason why he can’t make it. Maybe his mom got sick, or something came up with work. Maybe I’m the jerk here.

He will explain tomorrow when we talk.

I take a long gulp of my wine while I tell myself that over and over.Just don’t freak out. Everything is OK. I will talk to him tomorrow.

Then something occurs to me. I flick on my phone again and check the time difference. What’s he talking about? It’s almost two a.m. back home. Why is he only messaging now and why hasn’t he called?

Hitting call, I lift my phone to my ear. Then I pull it away again to stare in disbelief at the screen when it goes straight to voicemail. He sent that message fifteen minutes ago! Has he already gone to sleep?

And what am I supposed to do for the next seven or eight hours until he wakes up and calls me back?

Oh, I really don’t like this.

I glance up to find a man at a nearby table watching me. He leans to the guy next to him and whispers something. Soon they’re all looking.

I should be used to this. It’s not the first time it’s happened. I can just imagine the paparazzo sneaking around outside the restaurant, hiding in the bushes or peering through the window to snap a picture.

My throat is tight. I take a sip of wine and end up coughing into my napkin when it goes down the wrong way.

More people are looking.

Do they know?

Can they tell what a pathetic life I’m actually living? Do they see on my face how lonely I’ve been for months—how humiliated I am? Did they read that article too?

I can hardly breathe. Stumbling out of my chair, I gaze around frantically for the restroom. I need a minute to collect myself. To calm down. Somewhere no one can see me.

TWO

Noah

“What the fuck did you say to her already to piss her off that badly?” I hiss at the new girl. I knew I should have put someone else on the floor tonight. We’ve been expecting Olivia Zeston at The Snapper since word got out she was in town. At least I’ve been hoping.

Now there she is, looking effortlessly stunning and also like she swallowed five flies in the glass of wine she’s currently sipping.