Page 64 of Mad As Hell

He shot me an amused smile. “You’re adorable.”

I frowned, not entirely sure what he meant by that, but I had a feeling he was patronizing me.

“Wait’s an hour,” the hostess announced, barely glancing up as she hung up the phone.

“Actually, we’ll take a table in the back,” Ryan replied smoothly, giving her a grin that I’d seen him flash countless people. His this-will-be-going-my-way smile.

I sighed and shook my head, because sometimes he was so out of touch with reality it was ridiculous. Maybe back in Los Angeles he could ask for a private table or whatever, but this was Pacific City, and city was putting it loosely. It had more of a small-town, Hallmark movie vibe with some extra-fancy stores and a steakhouse thrown in for the rich elite at Pacific Cross.

The hostess looked up and her expression went a little pale. “Of course. Right this way.” She grabbed two menus from under the stand, and I noticed that they weren’t the laminated ones everyone else had as she led us past the main dining room and down a hall.

When we reached a staircase, I vaguely wondered if I should be concerned, but we followed her to the second floor and what looked like a second restaurant.

Instead of basic wooden chairs and tables like downstairs, here there were crisp, white linens on each table. The chairs were wooden but had details carved into the gleaming, polished surfaces. Instead of inches between tables, there were feet here separating diners.

The room was only half full, and I vaguely recognized a few students as we were led to a table near the middle of the room.

“We’ll take that table.” Ryan pointed to one in a far corner away from the other diners.

“Of course,” the hostess said smoothly, carrying the menus to the table he’d requested and waiting for us to sit before handing us the menus and hurrying away. Two glasses of water already waited for us, and in the middle of the table was a freaking lit candle.

I glanced around before leaning in with a hushed, “What the hell is this?”

Ryan chuckled softly. “This is what happens when you have a small town with a percentage of clientele who can’t mix with the townies.”

My brows shot up. “Can’t?”

He grimaced. “Won’t.”

“Are you serious?” I gaped at him.

“This used to be Monica’s apartment. The Monica who owns this place.” He reached for his water. “When some parents came to town, they bitched about having to wait for tables. One of them approached Monica about turning the top floor into a secondary dining room that was a bit more… upscale.”

I rolled my eyes. “But there’re other restaurants in town.”

“After all the shit you’ve seen, you think this is too much? Rich people throwing their checkbook around to prove a point?” Ryan shook his head. “So, he convinced her to flip this into a place where there’s a Michelin-starred chef to cater to people willing to pay a base cost of a grand for a table.”

I could feel my eyes bug out. “A thousand dollars just for a table?”

He nodded, still bemused by my reaction.

I leaned forward. “You mean this table cost a thousand freaking dollars?”

He looked a little uncomfortable, like maybe he’d realized he’d gone too far. “Yes.”

“That’s insane,” I spluttered.

“Not to Monica. She lives in a million-dollar mansion at the edge of town now.” Ryan shrugged. “Money talks, Mads.”

I scowled, annoyed on principle. “This is everything that’s wrong with the world.”

“It is?”

“Yes.” I flushed, my frustration rearing up once more. “People thinking that they can throw money at everything and just snap their fingers to make it happen. Or thinking that, because they have money, the world and everyone in it should bend the freaking knee or some other archaic bullshit.”

Ryan nodded slowly, his expression neutral and controlled. “Is that what happened?”

I stopped in confusion, a frown tugging at my lips. “Huh?”

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