Page 52 of Dirty Little Secrets
He pulls over, parking casually on the side of the road like the NYPD doesn’t apply to him. We’re in the middle of Chinatown, outside a dimly lit restaurant.
He raises a brow. “Cock-block?”
“Yes. Maybe Iwantedto sleep with that guy you rudely refused to let buy me a drink.”
He snorts. “You weren’t going to. And he had other ideas.”
He’s right. As drunk as I am, I didn’t plan on sleeping with anyone especially when I can’t stop thinking about him as Red.
Tonight was my escape. From Brent. From the guilt. From the lies. He doesn’t deserve what I’m doing behind his back. I feel like shit for doing.
He’s the only man who’s ever defended my honor, and I’m betraying him.
The passenger door swings open before I can even ask what he’s doing.
“Why are we here?” I ask, stepping out as the city lights ripple in my vision.
“You need to eat,” Xaiden says, already rounding the car. “You’ll regret it in the morning if you don’t.”
I glance up at the building. The sidewalk outside is quiet, the windows dim except for a soft glow pulsing behind a thick red curtain.
“It’s closed,” I mutter.
“No,” he says, his hand already at the door. “It’s open.”
Warmth hits me as we step inside the restaurant. The air is thick with the scent of sesame oil and garlic, something sizzling in the distance. The lighting is soft, not dark, but calm—like the kind of place that whispers instead of shouts.
The restaurant opens into an interior split by a cascading water feature set into the ceiling. Thin streams fall like rain, a quiet hush beneath the low music playing somewhere in the walls. The air smells of steamed rice, sweet soy, and grilled meat, and the glow from hidden lighting reflects against lacquered cherry blossom wallpaper.
To our left, a sign in elegant script readsChinese Cuisine.To the right:Thai & Japanese Fusion.The floor is polished black tile. Each table is made of deep mahogany, set with precise chopstick placements and folded linen napkins. It’s quiet, serene, like stepping into another country.
A man in a pressed black chef’s jacket appears from the back. He beams when he sees Xaiden and speaks to him in quick, confident Mandarin. Whatever he says earns a respectful nod, and then he gestures for us to follow him deeper inside.
We’re led to a hibachi table tucked in a semi-private alcove. A polished steel grill gleams beneath the overhead vent, and the chairs are wide, plush, and far too expensive for me to ever justify on my own.
“Sit,” Xaiden says, already pulling out one of the chairs for me.
I lower myself cautiously. “Why here?” I whisper.
“Because,” he says, smoothing his sleeves as he sits across from me, “you need real food. Not vending machine snacks.”
I raise a brow, watching him unroll his napkin and place it on his lap with maddening precision. “You ate earlier—with your date.”
“I lost my appetite.”
“But now you’re hungry?” I tease.
He doesn’t smile. Not right away. Instead, his gaze lands on me—sharp, dark, unwavering.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m hungry now.”
Before I can overthink that, the chef returns with a silver cart. Raw lobster tails, thin-sliced beef, shrimp, scallops, vegetables glistening from their rinse, mounds of sticky rice, and pats of real butter—all laid out like an offering.
“Welcome,” the chef says in accented English, then bows.
I sit up straighter as he clinks two spatulas together and turns the knob under the grill. Heat blooms across the table, and a thin sheen of oil glistens on the surface before he flicks a lighter and sends a flash of fire rolling across it.
I jump slightly.
