Page 110 of Bull Rush

“This is… wow.” Haze looks up where several large chandeliers drip candelabra-lit crystals from the ceiling.

“Well… he doesn’t exactly have a shortage of money.” The owner of the Queen’s Guard also owns this steakhouse and several other places throughout the city.

“It’s beautiful. I looked him up… Did you know that he’s one of the youngest billionaires in the country? He’s only our age. He inherited the money when his grandparents died suddenly in a house fire a few years ago.”

“Yes, well, he’s a lot more than that.” He has a reputation in Cincinnati, and I’ve never bothered to look into whether or not it was well-earned.

“You know him?” Hazel tears her gaze away from the decor to look at me again.

“I know of him. Enough to be nervous.”

“You? Nervous?” Hazel’s lips quirk in a smile. “I can’t imagine a man who could intimidate Ramsey Stockton.”

The bartender comes over and looks at us both expectantly.

“Oh, I’m sorry. We haven’t looked at the menu yet,” I apologize.

“Do you have a recommendation?”

“Our signature cocktail—the Queen of Hearts.”

“What’s in that?” Hazel’s brow furrows with curiosity.

“It’s a blackberry gin fizz with muddled raspberries added in.”

“That sounds delicious. I’ll have one of those.” Hazel beams.

“Just a whiskey, neat. Something peated?” I ask when he looks at me.

“We have a nice Laphroaig we just got in?”

“That works.” I don’t normally drink during the season, but a sip or two won’t kill me, and I could use it for my nerves.

“Neat?” He pauses and looks back. I nod my agreement, and then he takes off to make our drinks.

“They really like naming things after queens around here… Speaking of, he owns the Queen’s Guard, right? Bea was just telling me we need to go to a game together.” Hazel nods to the inlaid gilded tiles that form a vintage-looking hockey player on the wall behind the bar.

“Bea did seem to be a fan.” I smile, thinking of a memory I have of her and Cooper. Hazel’s eyebrow raises.

“You sure you never had a thing for her?” Her tone is playful when she asks.

“I’m sure. They just reminded me of us is all. If we were nicer people, anyway.” We both are busy laughing when the maître d’ appears and gives us a warm smile.

“I can take you upstairs now.” She motions to the stairs at the back of the restaurant.

“Oh. We just ordered drinks.” Hazel looks worriedly at the bartender who’s still muddling the berries for us.

“Not a problem. I’ll have them sent up for you. Follow me.”

We follow her up the stairs and into an illuminated, amber-colored room which has a long narrow table down the center with more than a half dozen black velvet upholstered chairs down each side. Four place settings are neatly set on the end closest to us, and I glance at Haze to see her taking it all in.

The maître d’ pulls our chairs out for us, and I stare at the array of forks and knives spread out around the place setting as I sit down. I sincerely wish that Grant had made the trip. I’d fail this test in a matter of minutes. The door on the other side of the room opens, and the green-eyed woman from the basement of The Avarice appears in a black cocktail dress, smiling warmly as she sees both of us.

“How is everything so far?” She looks between us.

I stand as she approaches the table, and Hazel follows suit.

“Very good,” Hazel answers.

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