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FIFTY
Patrick
Chase and Miranda are waiting for us at the table.“We were beginning to wonder if you’d make it,” Chase says, standing to lean over the table to kiss Cari on the cheek and she blushes, the birthmark on her chest burning hot. Despite the warm flush on her skin, Cari visible relaxes, giving him a warm smile while I pull out her chair.
“It’s my fault we’re late,” she says sliding into her chair. “Patrick brought me flowers and…” she looks around the restaurant, wide-eyed and a little pale, while I slide her chair into the table. “this is a really nice place.”
“Nothing’s too good for my new favorite artist,” Miranda says, leaning back in her seat, taking her wine glass with her.
“Hey,” Chase says, shooting her side-eye. “I’m sitting right here.”
“There, there…” Miranda laughs and reaches over to pat his knee like he’s an over-indulged five-year-old. “As soon as you earn me a six-figure commission in one night, you’ll be my favorite again.”
“A commission you promptly donated to the charity we were raising money for,” Chase reminds her.
Miranda waves her hand. “Where the money went after it was earned isn’t the point.” She looks at Cari. “The point is that your work was a hit and with the kind of buzz the benefit built, your debut opening is going to sell out.”
Cari looks up at me with a grin, before aiming it at Miranda. “Is that the news you wanted to give me?” she says. “The charity opening when well?”
“Well?” Miranda made a sound that, from any other person, I’d call a snort. “Darling, the entire benefit sold out, and your series was the first to go.”
Before Cari can say anything else, a waiter arrives with a bottle of wine. “Compliments of the house,” he says to me, displaying the label on the bottle of 2007 Sassicaia he’s holding, waiting for my approval.
Feeling like a pretentious prick, but not wanting to hurt Davey’s feelings, I nod my head. “Thank you, Mateo,” I say, watching while he pours a tasting into my glass. I take a sip, pretending to consider—it’s a three-hundred-dollar bottle of wine. There really isn’t anything to consider—before nodding again.
“Very good sir,” Mateo says so proudly, you’d think he stomped the grapes himself. After pouring a portion of the bottle into each glass, he gathers our menus. “Chef says to inform you he’ll be ordering for the table this evening.”
Arguing will get me nowhere. As Silver said—I must be punished. “Please tell chef we have a mushroom allergy,” I tell him. “And to be gentle.”
Mateo flashes me a wicked smile, I’m sure no one caught but me. “Of course.”
Gentle. Davey’s about as gentle as a wrecking ball.
When I refocus my attention on the table, everyone is staring at me. “Davey’s a friend,” I say, offering a short explanation. “Sort of.”
“Davey?” Miranda arches an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. “Davino Fiorella—the most celebrated chef on the planet—is a friend of yours? Sort of?” She picks up her glass of wine and takes a swallow. “Do tell.”
Cari is staring at me like she doesn’t know who I am. “It’s nothing,” I say, shaking my head. “Declan and I bring clients here from time to time, and he caught on to the fact that I’m an architect. We got to talking, and he asked me to submit a bid to build his new restaurant—” I reach over and slip my hand around Cari’s. Her fingers are ice cold. “No big deal.” I’m looking at Miranda, but I’m talking to Cari.
Chase laughs into his wine glass. “Sorry to burst your bubble kid, but it’s a big deal.”
He’s right. It is a big deal. Davey was named Chef of the Century. He’s been awarded more Michelin stars than any other chef in history. He’s also a good friend who’s been exceedingly generous to Declan and me these past several months.
Right now, I wish I’d never met him.
Before I can even attempt to contain the situation, the courses start. Grilled asparagus salad with crab and truffle vinaigrette. Roasted tomato gazpacho with whipped ricotta. Poached lobster. Duck leg confit. Each dish more elaborate and expensive than the last. More wine with price tags that make me break out in a rash.
Not that I would be allowed to pay for any of it.
Davey’s way of punishing me for not letting him know I was coming for dinner is to feed me to death.
Finally, just as I’m about to excuse myself and hunt him down, Davey makes an appearance. With more food.
“Have you learned your lesson?” he says in lightly accented English. Davey was born in Italy but raised in France. “Or do I need to pair your main course with the 2003 Latour Bordeaux?” he says, setting down the plates in his hand—New York strip steaks with pomme Duchess and market vegetables—with a small flourish.
The 2003 Latour cost three thousand dollars a bottle.
“Message received,” I say, holding up my hands in surrender. “It won’t happen again.”