Page 16 of Tarek

“Hello? Zee?”

“Heifer whose side are you on?” Zeeta snaps, her voice is loud through the speaker.

“Duh, yours.” I laugh, and I’m already starting to wrap up my work for the day.

“Okay, and you are my safety for the night. York is on a Bumble date after all,” Zeeta fusses.

As my computer logs off, I push away from my desk. “I got you. Where are you guys eating again?”

“Glasshouse.”

I clutch my hand to my chest. “I will give a rib just to eat there. I heard the food is so good.”

“To eat the food or the chef?”

I chuckle thinking about the time I had to search Beyonce’s internet to find the owner of the Glasshouse for Zeeta. Tarek Fairisles was a fine man.

“He is a looker but nah, I will pass.” My computer screen fades to black as the shut down finishes.

“What’s your plan for the night?” Zeeta asks.

I walk into my kitchen, reaching for a bag of chips and water. “I’m going to read E. Howard’s new book and chill.”

“So you and Melvin are really done,”

I wait for a twinge of pain, but nothing happens. It only cements in my mind that I had no feelings for him.

“Yes, we are.”

“Think of it as God protecting your PH.”

“Amen to that. Text me if you need me, okay? Enjoy your date.” I tap my earbuds to end the call.

Grabbing my blanket out of the rattan basket, I nestle myself into the corner of the chair. I have been dying to readLeft At The Altarby E. Howard and tonight I actually had the time to do so.

* * *

TAREK

I take approximately four hours to finish up work, head home, shower, change into my charcoal and black suit and get back on the road. As I pull up to The Glasshouse, my phone rings, I tap my earbud and answer.

“Yeah.”

“You really need to work on the way you answer the phone buddy,” the deep gravelly voice echoes around me. I chuckle, feeling a strange comfort in the sound of it.

“Are you back in Lakeshore, Dax?” I ask, passing the keys to the valet, as I jog up the stairs into the restaurant.

The doorman steps forward, holding the door open. “Good evening Mr. Fairisles,”

I nod and stride briskly into the restaurant. A low hum of conversation fills the space, while soft tinkle of a piano drifts through the air. “I’m leaving for New York on a red eye. I called to say congratulations. Bad boy Chef Fairisles receiving a Michelin star for Glasshouse.”

I crack a smile sending a small wave to some guests, nodding to other guests as they vie for my attention. Everyone wants to act like they know me, like we are connected in some way or the other. It’s their claim to fame or longing to be in a circle that they will never be welcomed into. The scent of olive oil and grilled meat is prevalent in the air. There is a clatter of cutlery and plates. The patrons’ low murmurs. This is what I live for the rush of owning a restaurant.

“Thanks. It hasn’t sunken in yet. I’m meeting a project manager and a contractor to discuss constructing two new restaurants.” I wave to the private assistant of Lakeshore’s mayor. I hope to God that he stays seated. I am not in the mood to have any sort of small talk with anyone.

“Chef Fairisles?” a soft voice greets me from behind.

“Here we go, another challenger has entered the ring,” Dax groans in my ear.

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