Page 25 of The Billionaires

Before he can reply, our waiter—a tall, handsome guy about my age—comes over with a bottle of wine and two glasses.

“1996 Screaming Eagle,” he says, displaying the bottle like he’s in a magazine ad.

Lucius nods, and the waiter uncorks the wine and pours a glass for him.

When it’s my turn, the waiter sneaks an appreciative glance over me. I blink, equal parts surprised and flattered, but then I remember what I’m wearing. My newfound attractiveness is due to Versace and Gucci… and Lucius for buying the outfit.

Speaking of Lucius, his eyes are flinty all of a sudden—and zeroed in on the waiter. “Where is the waitress?”

The waiter sets down the wine and looks like he’s about to bolt. “Which one do you mean? We have several.”

“The blonde,” Lucius says imperiously. “The one with good memory.”

“Jessica?” the waiter asks cautiously.

“Whatever,” Lucius says. “Where is she?”

Should I feel less special now that I see Lucius is a rude bastard not just to me?

The waiter backs away from the table. “When someone books the whole restaurant, I’m the one who?—”

“Get someone else.” The sentence sounds like a military order.

The waiter glances helplessly at the hostess. “How about Maddy? Everyone else is?—”

“That’s fine.” Lucius reaches into his pocket and takes out a crisp hundred-dollar bill. “For your trouble.”

The waiter snatches the money and rushes over to the hostess.

Their conversation is easy to picture:

“Maddy, you pulled the short straw today.”

“No, Hot Waiter, I don’t want to serve that guy. Please don’t make me.”

“He tips in hundreds.”

“Fine. But I bet I’ll feel like I earned every penny by the time their meal is done.”

With the conversation over, the hostess-turned-waitress and the handsome waiter head over to the kitchen.

“You realize they’ll spit in our food now,” I whisper.

Lucius scoffs. “If anyone dares to spit in the masterpiece that the chef has so carefully crafted, he’ll carve them into sashimi.”

My palms feel twitchy, like they want to smack someone. “You made me look bad by association.”

He swirls the wine in his glass. “How?”

I pick up my own glass lest I actually do smack him. “By being an ass?”

He takes a sip. “He was unprofessional, and I didn’t fire him. An ass would have.”

I put my glass down. “Wait. You own this place?”

He shrugs. “When you taste the black cod, you’ll see why.”

Unable to come up with a rebuttal that isn’t filled with expletives, I pick up my glass and take a sip of the wine.

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