Page 23 of A Smooth Operator

"You speak French?" Remi asked.

"I can say cheers in ten languages," I laughed. "It's an important skill."

"Which languages?" Remi asked, raising an eyebrow.

"English and French. And Spanish, German, Italian, Russian, Japanese, Mandarin, Greek, and Swahili."

He leaned back, folding his arms across his chest with a grin. "Alright then, let's hear it."

"Okay, here we go." I took a deep breath before launching into the list: "Cheers and Santé. Salud in Spanish. Prost in German. Cin cin in Italian."

"Everyone knows those," Remi teased.

"Za zdorovie in Russian. Kanpai in Japanese. Ganbei in Mandarin."

"That's eight languages."

"Geiá mas! in Greek and Afya in Swahili."

Remi applauded lightly. "Impressive. I think I'm sticking with cheers."

"Cheers to that."

"Thank you for agreeing to have dinner with me Echo." Remi held his glass up, and I clinked it with mine.

“To oysters and moonlight," I toasted.

The oysters were briny and fresh, with a hint of lemon that matched perfectly with the chablis.

It became easier to talk to him after that. He was smart without being an asshole about it. He was well-read and well-traveled. He knew enough about what his father's company did that we could talk about my research without him being completely lost.

The second course arrived, a lobster bisque that was rich and velvety, paired with a buttery chardonnay that lingered on the tongue.

Remi leaned back in his chair, taking a sip of wine before speaking casually about his work at the club and restaurants.

"I can only imagine the challenges of managing two kitchens and a nightclub at the same time," I said, intrigued. "What's the most ridiculous thing that's ever happened?"

"You mean besides seeing my ex being—"

"Besides that." I didn't need a visual of that in my head again because thinking about Marina with Alex made me think about her with Remi, and that hurt my heart.

He grinned, setting his glass down. "We'd just opened for the night, and this high-roller customer insisted on having his own private bartender. He had a whole entourage with him, and they were all very particular about their drinks."

"What did they want?"

"Oh, everything from elaborate margaritas with hand-crushed ice to martinis shaken with a specific type of vermouth. But the kicker? One of them wanted a flaming shot—something flashy. So, the bartender pours a line of Bacardi 151 shots, sets them on fire, and the customer grabs one with a smirk even as the bartender is asking him to wait."

I raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess, it didn't go as planned?"

"You got it. He tilts his head back, and the fire catches on his shirt collar. Thankfully, one of my security guys sprang into action and doused him with water."

"Was he okay?"

"Yeah, just a singed collar and a bruised ego. But his friends loved it and started calling him Fireball for the rest of the night." Remi chuckled, shaking his head. "They left a generous tip, so the bartender wasn't just left with the nightmare of burning down a guest."

I couldn't help but laugh. "Sounds like you get your share of entitled ass…people."

"Assholes is right, Echo. And, yeah, they're entitled, but all in all, the club and the restaurants are there to give people an experience—a good one. Life can be hard. Here is where I can give my guests a way to leave the world behind."

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