Page 15

I checked my watch and cursed under my breath. It was 7:50, and if Vera was a stickler for punctuality, as I believed, I had only ten minutes to make sure everything was in order.

“Who’s coming? It better not be that fucker Vincent Delacroix,” Braxton seethed.

“No, we’re not being reviewed,” I answered as I scrolled through our beer selections.

Since our very first conversation, Vera and I had been exchanging messages nonstop. I quickly discovered that she was an avid beer enthusiast, so much so that she was pursuing a Biochemistry degree to become a brewmaster and work in research and development. I never met a woman who was as knowledgeable about beer as Vera, and it added to her natural appeal and charm, which added to my current stressful predicament.

“Then who are we hosting that has you in a tizzy?”

“Braxton, he’ll go with the third flight but switch the stout with the one from the first flight,” DeAndre ordered, swooping in to save the day. “Thank you for your service, man. Now, go out there and pimp out that new dessert wine you insisted we purchase for a million dollars a case.”

“It’s $250.00 a case,” Braxton corrected.

“Hmph. That’s $150.00 more than I care to spend. Go make my money back.” Braxton rolled his eyes and left the bustling kitchen. I checked my watch again and shook my head at the time loss. “Here’s the custom dinner menu you requested that’ll knock your sugar baby’s panties off,” DeAndre said callously.

“Knock it off,” I growled, snatching the menu out of his hand. He threw his hands up in surrender.

“My bad. My bad. I didn’t mean any harm. I’m fucking with you. I just find it fascinating that this woman already has your nose wide open.”

“My nose is not wide open,” I insisted as I perused the menu.

He snorted. “Says the man who has been terrorizing the staff since his arrival and blocked off the patio, limiting our money-making ability.”

“Fuck you. I haven’t been terrorizing the staff, and I only blocked off the patio for the second half of dinner service. This menu—”

“—is perfect, and I won’t be making any adjustments or substitutions,” he said, shooting me the same glare his mother gave us when we were children that would quickly make us scatter and find something quiet to do.

“Understood, Chef.”

“Fantastic,” he replied, lips sliding into a triumphant grin. “I never thought I’d live to see the day when Hart ‘Hartbreak’ Myers would go to such great lengths for a date.”

“It’s not a date. It’s a business meeting.”

“It certainly looks like a date—jazz music, dim lighting, chilled wine…seclusion for privacy,” he said, wagging his brows at me. I shoved him away.

“Sounds like business as usual for Andre’s. Also, can you find it in that empty skull of yours to remember that this is supposed to be discreet?”

Thank God I haven’t signed a contract with her yet because spilling the beans to DeAndre would violate our NDA.

“Relax, Hart. You don’t have to worry about me having your business in the streets. Now, get the fuck out of my kitchen so we can do our job without you taking up space and oxygen. I’ll personally bring her out to you.”

I blew out a frustrated breath and ran my fingers through my hair.

“How do I look?” I asked, holding my arms out to the side.

“You look like shit, and I didn’t want to say it, but your breath is kicking, too.”

I frowned as he laughed raucously, like he tended to do at the most inconvenient times. It was both annoying and comforting, reminding me of when we were kids, spending every waking moment doing dumb shit for the hell of it and cackling like hyenas. We could never be serious. Not even when we were forced to paint the barn as punishment for trying to joust while riding the llamas.

“D—”

“Hart, you’re good, man. You look handsome, you’re dressed sharp, and you smell good.”

“Thanks, D,” I mumbled before downing an abandoned lager from a rejected flight.

Here goes nothing.

I left the kitchen, smiled congenially at the guests, and shook some hands as I ventured to the patio.