Page 80 of Fair Trade

“Uh, is it closing time or something?” Isa asks.

I interrupt the torrid love affair I’m having with my pasta to see what she’s referring to. Security escorting people out of the exclusive lounge.

“This place doesn’t close until two a.m. And not everyone is leaving. Only the men,” Daisy notes.

My eyes scan the room, jumping from person to person, noting how the wait staff place to-go containers in front of the male patrons as they wave them to the door with apologetic looks on their faces.

“That’s weird. I wonder if something happened. Why else would they—”

No. This can’t be…

“Excuse me, are you Mrs. Álvarez-Stonehaven?” a nervous man who introduced himself as the manager earlier in the night asks me.

I nod woodenly. “Um, y-yeah, that’s me. Is everything okay?”

He lifts a cordless office phone and points it in my direction. “This is for you.” He hands the phone to me, and I take it out of his shaky hand.

“Uh, hello?”

Silence greets me momentarily. I only hear the clink of ice hitting glass, followed by liquid being poured.

And then a voice.

“Ah, there she is. My beautiful wife.”

Goosebumps rise on my skin. I suppress my surprise at hearing him on the other end of the line and instead growl into the phone. “Nick. What did you do?”

The women around me gasp, putting together the pieces of what’s going on.

“Only what any respectable husband with deep pockets and limited sanity would do when his wife pushes him too far. I bought the bar and gave firm instructions to kick out all the men. Only security and the manager are allowed to stay since I suppose someone needs to run the establishment while the change of ownership is underway.”

“You didn’t,” I say breathlessly.

“But I did.” I can hear the grin in his voice. “It’s actually in your name, so try not to trash the place. Consider it a gift for you and all the ladies, since tonight is now a girls’ night in every sense of the word.”

“Nick, this is ridiculous. I can’t even—” I sigh, looking at the manager, who now won’t look up from his shoes. “Did you threaten the manager?”

“Why would you ask such a thing?” His tone is riddled with delight.

“Because the poor guy won’t make eye contact with me.”

He groans loudly. “Can no one follow directions anymore? No, I didn’t threaten. I simply implied the many unpleasant things that could happen to him if he dared to look at you anywhere below your neck. I am reasonable, after all,” he huffs.

“Nick, that’s a threat.”

“Not according to my lawyers,” he mumbles.

“Nick—”

“No, no, darling. I think this call has gone on long enough. Run off and continue to have a nice night with the ladies. I hear the tortellini and the mocktails are to die for.”

I’m no longer feeling much pity for that manager.

“But just know, I’ll be waiting for you once you get home. And I’m having quite the time planning how I’m going to have my way with your body.”

“What? I’m, uh—”

“Nuh-uh-uh. You’ve made your bed, Angel. Now come home to your devil and lie in it.”