Page 1 of The Arrogant One

PROLOGUE

Hart

“Idon’t know why I’m not the face of the company when I have the prettiest one in this whole fucking room.” I eyed down my four siblings as they sat around the conference table at our corporate office, laughing, and I waited for their rebuttal.

Because I knew it was coming.

Of course, they knew I didn’t want to be the face of The Weston Group—the umbrella that held our family’s two brands of restaurants and nightclubs. I was just giving my oldest brother, Walker, some shit since he’d just ordered me to go check out our latest competition—a steak house in Laguna Beach called Horned.

That was what you did when you owned a worldwide empire of food establishments—you assessed every hot spot, taking note of what they had done wrong, and what they had done right.

Horned had been making far too much of a splash in thesteak house scene, so they were obviously doing something right.

It was a task that couldn’t be assigned to Walker. His face was known across the globe as one of the top chefs in the world and was too easily recognized. Given that Beck, the youngest boy, was an NHL superstar, he couldn’t go either. So, the task rotated to either Eden, our only sister; Colson, the second oldest; or me.

And according to Walker, it was my turn.

“You sure are the prettiest, you playboy,” Walker groaned.

“Hold on a second, Walker.” Eden, sitting next to me, turned her chair until her entire body was pointed at me. Her all-black suit and matching nails weren’t what caught my attention. What was doing that were the sky-high red heels tapping the air. “The prettiest title has been mine since the day I was born. What would make you think you’d earned that slot?” She nodded toward me and winked. “Because you hold the family record for the number of women you’ve slept with?”

“But does he?” Beck asked her, running his hand over his beard, which he’d been growing since the start of this year’s hockey season. A fucking bush that I was shocked didn’t get stuck in his helmet. “If we’re talking numbers, I think I could give that bastard a run for his money.” He laughed.

I glanced at Colson, the most laid-back of the bunch and the only parent in the room, and said, “How about you?”

“What about me?” Colson inquired.

“You want to weigh in? And share your recent count?”

He hissed out a mouthful of air. “A true gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”

Eden snorted. “There isn’t a woman in California who hasn’t seen one of you naked. I wouldn’t call any of you a gentleman when it comes to that department. And honestly, I don’t know how I’m from the same womb as the four of you.”

Eden was certainly the most innocent of our group. What didn’t help was that she had a team of brothers who would destroy any man who hurt her.

Not that we had to. She didn’t fuck around with men like we did with women.

She didn’t even date.

I shook my head, chuckling. “And there are some women in this state who have had more than one brother.”

“Dude”—Beck’s hand went over his mouth—“do you remember the chick who?—”

“You will not finish that sentence,” Eden cut him off, pointing at him. “I don’t want to hear about any chicks unless they’re going to become my future sister-in-law, and I think I have a long time before that happens.” She turned her chair straight. “I need to get back to work. Walker, do you have any more orders for Hart? Or can we adjourn this meeting?”

Walker leaned his arms onto the table, the sleeves of his chef’s whites rolled up to his elbows, telling me he had stopped in for the meeting and was headed straight to the kitchen. “In the next few days, I want you to go to the restaurant in Laguna Beach. Check out the interior. The menu. Take some photos. Order an item from each course. Take more pictures. And report back to us.” He ran his hand over his black hair that was just starting to gray along his crown—premature for a thirty-five-year-old maybe or pressure from being one of the most innovative chefs there ever was.

“Done,” I replied.

He tilted his body against the lip of the wood. “If they put a loaf of bread in front of you, I want to know if it’s brown or sourdough, if there are seeds on the crust, if it’s been toasted or just warmed or if it’s served cold—the butter, if it’s whipped or if it’s a pat and if that pat is dusted in flaky salt. If your steak is served on a plate, I want to know the temperature of thestoneware. If butter is pooled beneath your meat, I want to know what it’s infused with—rosemary, thyme, parsley, or a combination of all three.” He attempted to push up the cuff of his sleeve even higher than his elbow, but it wouldn’t go up anymore. “I want every detail there is, Hart. Don’t leave anything out.”

I rocked in my chair. “Anything else, Chef?”

“That should do it—for now.” Walker looked around the table at each of our faces.

“I’d like to talk about Toro,” Beck said. “What’s the status of the Beverly Hills build-out? I stopped by the restaurant the other day and added about twenty items to the punch list. The place is a fucking disaster.”

“It’s mid-construction,” Walker replied.