“Thank you,” she said. “You certainly say it enough to make me feel beautiful.”
“New dress?”
She laughed and looked down at herself. “Um, no. I got this at Macy’s a couple of years ago. Clearance rack.”
“It’s beautiful.”
She tugged her hand back. “Thank you. Again.”
Gretchen tore her gaze from his and looked around at the restaurant. Their VIP table in the loft gave them a full view of the urban-chic decor. Wrought-iron chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, and exposed-brick walls gave it an unfinished feel. But when paired with the dark woodwork and the ornate gold, it also had an old-world opulence to it.
“I always wondered what it looked like in here,” Gretchen said.
“What do you think?”
“It’s, um . . .” She winced as if reluctant to criticize. “It’s a little over the top.”
“So is Royce.”
“You know him?”
Mack adjusted his sport coat as he sat back in his chair. “We’ve met several times. Charity golf tournaments and that sort of thing. We tend to run in the same circles as business owners.”
“Ah. Of course.” She squinted. “I don’t really run in those circles, you know.”
“You run in more important circles.” Gretchen was a public defender specializing in immigration cases.
Their waiter approached the table with a bottle of chilled Dom Perignon. Mack had ordered it when he’d made the reservation, along with the signature dessert—the Sultan cupcake. It was so elaborate and expensive, it had to be ordered in advance. He couldn’t wait for Gretchen to see it.
“Champagne?” Gretchen asked as the waiter popped the cork.
“We’re celebrating,” Mack said with a wink.
The waiter poured two tall flutes and then left the bottle in a bucket of ice next to the table before saying he’d be back in a few minutes to go over the specials for the night.
“Sure,” Gretchen said, accepting her glass. “So what’s the occasion?”
Mack raised his glass. “I closed the deal today on the new building,” he said. “But more importantly, here’s to us. Three months. And hopefully many more.”
Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes when she clinked her glass with his. He thought at first that he was imagining it, but she looked away when she took a drink.
“Everything okay?”
She swallowed and nodded. “This is wonderful.”
“So are you.”
There it was again. The not quite a smile smile. Mack set down his glass and reached again for her hand. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine. I’m just . . . To be honest, I feel a little guilty being at a place like this.”
“Why?”
“My clients can barely afford boxed macaroni and cheese for their children.”
“Doesn’t mean I can’t spoil you, does it?”
“I don’t need to be spoiled, Mack.”
“But you deserve to be.” He tried again with the wink and the smile. This time it worked. Her fingers relaxed in his.
“Thank you. You definitely know how to wine and dine a woman.”
“I aim to please.” He gave her fingers a final squeeze and let go. “Now I hope you’re hungry. Because I have a surprise for you later.”
Gretchen drank from her champagne and looked at her watch.
* * *
* * *
“I swear to God, why not just light a thousand bucks on fire?”
Liv Papandreas stepped back from the stainless-steel counter to study her latest culinary masterpiece with a disgusted shake of her head. As a pastry chef at Savoy, it shouldn’t surprise her anymore what the one percent would waste their money on, but sadly, it did. And she had known the minute her boss put the gold-infused cupcake on the menu that the city’s richest celebrities and show-offs would order it in droves just because they could.
Well, that, and so they could pose for an Instagram-worthy photo with Royce Preston, celebrity chef, television host, and the dickhead who signed Liv’s paychecks.
Every week, millions of fans tuned in to his reality show, Kitchen Boss, for a dose of his smooth-talking charm. Little did they know that his smooth-talking charm was as fake as his hair. When the cameras were off, he was a belligerent douchebag who stole most of his recipes from his own staff. Liv had somehow managed to survive an entire year in his kitchen, mostly because she had a stubborn disdain for wealthy posers. Who could’ve guessed that a teenage career in breaking rules and antagonizing authority figures would actually help her someday?
Rumor had it that tonight’s cupcake schmuck was some nightclub owner. Liv wouldn’t know. Nightclubs weren’t really her thing. Because people. People weren’t really her thing either.
Suddenly, her fellow prison inmate—er, pastry chef—Riya Singh clapped her on the back. “You don’t think your talents are worth a thousand dollars?”
“I think my talents are worth a lot more. I just don’t think a single freaking cupcake is. Every single person who orders one of these should be forced to immediately write a check for the downtown food bank.”
“Starting with Royce.”
Yeah, right. Men like Royce didn’t give money to charity. They hoarded it, flaunted it. Bribed their kids’ way into elite colleges with it. And he was about to make a helluva lot more of it. In one month, the first official Kitchen Boss cookbook would be published—a cookbook full of recipes he’d ripped off. One of Liv’s was in there—a twist on baklava using pomegranates and natural honey.
“I still don’t understand why you don’t just quit and take your sister up on her offer,” Riya said. “You could be free of this place forever if you wanted. The rest of us have to stay because we don’t have any other choice.”
Liv’s sister, Thea, had offered at least a dozen times to give Liv the money to open her own business. Thea was married to a Major League Baseball player who made a major league salary. But the thing no one seemed to understand, including Thea herself, was that Liv didn’t want to succeed because of someone else’s money. If that were the case, she’d just call her rich father and finally accept his endless offers to buy his way back into her life. She didn’t want his guilt money, though.
Anyway, Liv had worked too hard and overcome too much to take the easy way out now. She had the drive and talent to succeed on her own, and she was going to. If she could last one more year here, she could write her own ticket in the cutthroat culinary profession, because everyone knew that if you could survive Royce, you could handle anything. Every single day was a fight, but Liv had worked too damn hard to risk her career now by spiking the man’s breakfast smoothie with rat poison.
Not that she’d, like, thought about that or anything.
Jessica Summers, a young hostess who’d started just a month ago, crept over to the counter, biting her lip. “Is that it?” she asked breathlessly, staring at the cupcake.
“Yep,” Liv said.
“I haven’t worked a shift yet when someone ordered it. You can really eat the gold?” She bent down to study it, eyes wide. “What does it even taste like?”
“Ostentatious greed.”
Jessica looked up. “Is that good?”
“Rich people think so.”
The swinging doors to the kitchen slammed open. Everyone held their breath as Royce stormed in. He wore his standard uniform—a tailored suit, crisp white shirt with the top three buttons undone to reveal a smattering of chest hair, and a leather necklace that he claimed was a gift from some indigenous tribe but Liv would bet cold hard cash was actually a cheap trinket from a shop downtown.
“Olivia,” Royce barked, because he refused to use her nickname like everyone else. It was some kind of weird power-play thing.
Jessica gulped, cheeks red and eyes
closed, as Royce approached them. Poor girl. She wasn’t going to last long if she couldn’t even handle the bark of his voice. You just had to know how to bark back.
“Is it going to be ready on time?” Royce growled.
“Have I ever been late with one?”
He turned a bright shade of red. His eyes gave her the once-over, and he shook his head. “Clean yourself up before we take that out there.”
Yeah. Not only did she have to make these gold-encrusted monstrosities, she also had to trail behind his holiness to deliver them to the customer. Royce was all about the show. Liv glanced down at herself. Chocolate was smeared across her coat. Hazard of the job. Royce snapped his fingers at Riya. “Give her your coat. Now. Come on.”
A clean coat was suddenly thrust in her line of vision. Liv shot an apologetic look at her friend as she unbuttoned her soiled coat and traded it.
“Get back to work,” he ordered Riya.
He stormed off again, and Jessica let out the breath she’d been holding. Liv could’ve sworn she saw tears in the girl’s eyes. Yeah, she was so not going to last. Mental note: Help Jessica find another job before she has a nervous breakdown.
Or before Liv really did spike his smoothie with rat poison.
Liv carefully lifted the tray holding the cupcake and met Royce by the doors. She tried not to openly roll her eyes when he told her not to fucking drop it.
As if she ever had.
The instant they entered the restaurant, Royce transformed into the easygoing guy everyone knew and loved from the show. An excited whisper followed in his wake, and he ate it up. He was all hearty waves and sideways peace signs. Phone cameras captured his every move, and behind him, Liv pretended to be proud of the gilded concoction she carried. She held the tray high in her right hand and pasted a smile on her face to hide the fact that she was silently wishing Royce would burst into flames. She followed him toward the VIP section of the restaurant, where a red velvet rope separated the chosen ones from the lesser mortals. Liv waited for Royce to approach the table first, of course. This was his show. From ten feet away in the dim lighting, Liv could make out the forms of two people at the table—a man with broad shoulders beneath a sport coat and a woman with glossy hair and smart eyes. Whoever this dude was, he was laying it on thick for his date. Their plates revealed the remnants of steak, lobster, and truffle pâté.
“Friends,” Royce said in his best TV show voice. “May I present to you the Sultan.”
The man turned in his seat and—oh crap. Liv knew him.
What was his name? Mike? No. Mack. Brad Mack? Braden. Braden Mack. He was a friend of her brother-in-law, Gavin. He was the dude who’d dragged Gavin into some weird, secret romance novel book club for men to help Gavin convince Thea not to divorce him. But, more important, he was the jerk who had eaten her Chinese food leftovers the first time they met. She’d been looking forward to those leftovers. What kind of person ate someone else’s lo mein? The same kind who saw no problem spending a thousand bucks on a cupcake, apparently.
The man stood and extended his hand. “Royce. Good to see you again.”
Of course. Of course he knew her boss. Because a guy who would waste a normal person’s entire paycheck on a single dinner out would definitely run in the same circles as Royce Preston.
Royce shook Mack’s hand and did the manly back-pounding half-hug thing. “I had no idea you were here tonight. I’ll have to have a word with our hostess about that.”
Oh no. Poor Jessica. Maybe Liv would have time to warn her before he chewed her to pieces.
“This is Gretchen Winthrop,” Mack said, gesturing gallantly to his date. “She’s an attorney.”
“An attorney, huh?”
The woman lifted her hand for Royce to shake. Instead, he pulled it to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “Beautiful and smart,” Royce said. “It’s a pleasure.”
Liv puked in her mouth.
The woman gently pulled her hand away. “Likewise.”
Except she didn’t really seem sincere in that. Liv liked her immediately. She was too smart for these guys.
“How’s business?” Royce asked as Mack returned to his seat.
“Great,” Mack said. “Just signed the papers on a new building in the old industrial area.”
“That was you?”
“That was me.”
“I had my eye on those buildings.”
Mack spread his hands out in a fake apology. “Sorry. I’m leaning toward a restaurant this time.”
“Ah, you’re expanding your empire,” Royce said. “Good man. Let’s talk and see if we can work together on some things.”
It was the kind of noncommittal, we’re all in this together bullshit Royce dished out to all the other rich men who walked into Savoy. But he wouldn’t follow through. Royce didn’t share the wealth or the limelight with anyone.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Gretchen suddenly said. “But I feel bad that she’s been standing there this entire time just holding that thing. Can she at least set it down?”
Royce shot Liv a deceptively blank stare that simmered with rage. His left eyebrow twitched almost imperceptibly. But then he broke into a broad grin. “Of course. Olivia, if you would.”
Liv strode forward, eyes everywhere but on Mack, and lowered the tray so the cupcake was eye-level with Gretchen. She tilted her face away from Mack, but he probably wouldn’t recognize her anyway. Her snug chef’s hat hid her curly hair, and she doubted Mack had studied her face long enough while eating her noodles for him to remember it now.
“The Sultan is our signature dessert, featuring a mixture of chocolates from twelve different countries,” Royce continued. “With a champagne-jelly filling and edible gold adornments, it’s served with a twenty-four-carat-gold spoon and a scoop of the finest Ugandan vanilla bean ice cream.”
“Wow,” Gretchen said with just enough snark for Liv to decide they should be BFFs. “I’m almost afraid to eat it.”
“How about a picture?” Royce said, walking behind Gretchen’s chair to pose.
Just once, Liv would love to see someone say no to a photo.
And wonder of wonders, today would be that day.
“Oh, that’s—no, I’m fine,” Gretchen said, and somewhere in the world, angels began to sing. If only Liv were telepathic, because her brain was screaming YOU ARE MY BEST FRIEND.
Royce’s eyebrow twitched again. It was bad enough that a woman had said no to a picture. But to do so in front of a staff member. Oh, the raging would be loud tonight. But definitely worth it.
Liv quietly cleared her throat and was just about to set the cupcake on the table when—
“Hey, I know you.” Mack leaned forward, studying her face. “You’re Thea’s sister.”
Without waiting for her to confirm or deny, Mack nodded at his date. “This is amazing. I had no idea she worked here. I’ve told you about Gavin, right? This is his sister-in-law.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Gretchen said. “I’d shake your hand, but obviously your hands are full. This looks delicious by the way. Thank you.”
Liv smiled. “Nice to meet you.”
Royce cleared his throat. Oh, shit. She’d said words, hadn’t she? That was bad. She was going to pay for that later.
“I swear, I didn’t know you worked here,” Mack said, still clueless. “Gavin only said that you worked at a restaurant downtown.”
“Olivia has worked for me for several months,” Royce said, not to be left out.
“A year,” Liv corrected quietly. Royce cleared his throat again. Quietly. Firmly. You are so dead-ly.
Mack suddenly stood. “We should get a picture. I’ll send it to Gavin.”
Liv darted a glance at Royce, whose forced smile suggested he was not happy about being overshadowed. He didn’t share the camera lens with anyone.
&n
bsp; “I appreciate the gesture,” Liv said steadily. “But I prefer to stay behind the scenes.”
“No way,” Mack said. “You should get credit for your work.”
Liv imagined the top of Royce’s head literally blowing off, along with his toupee, but he was too much of a showman to do anything besides smile and say, “Absolutely. Olivia, please.”
She was going to pay for this later. It didn’t matter that she’d done nothing to encourage this. Royce wouldn’t see it that way.
“Wait,” Mack said. “Do you prefer Liv or Olivia? I’ve only ever heard Gavin call you Liv.”
“Liv, actually. But Royce calls me Olivia.”
“Why?”
Liv looked up. “Yeah, Royce. Why?”
Royce’s fake smile was so cold that it practically hummed “Ice Ice Baby.”
Mack shrugged and handed his phone across the table to Royce. Liv’s mouth fell open. He was . . . he was asking Royce to take the picture? No one did that to Royce. No one. OMG, do not smile. Do not smile. If she smiled, she would end up in the cupcake, not serving it.
Royce nodded, still smiling, but Liv knew that smile. It hid a boiling fury that Royce would certainly unleash later in a torrent of flying spittle and I’ve met dead slabs of lamb smarter than you outbursts. But what the hell was Liv supposed to do? Hit Mack over the head with her tray and run away?
Actually, that was a tempting idea.
Mack rounded the table and stood next to Liv. He slung an arm around her shoulders and—
The tray wobbled in her hands. She tried to correct, tried to steady it with her other hand, but her reflexes were too late.
Time slowed to the blurry speed of a horror movie as the cupcake slid to the edge of the tray. It balanced there for a moment, teetered like a car in a movie that stops just in time before plunging over the edge of a cliff.
It was just long enough for her entire career to flash before her eyes. Long enough for her to imagine all the ways she was going to kill Braden Mack for this. Long enough for a single word to drag along the length of her tongue. “Fuuucck . . .”
Undercover Bromance Page 2