hung from her delicate earlobes and sparkled in the candlelight.
“Thank you,” she said. “You certainly say it enough to make me feel beautiful.”
“New dress?”
She laughed and looked down at herself. “Um, no. I got this at Macy’s a couple of years ago. Clearance rack.”
“It’s beautiful.”
She tugged her hand back. “Thank you. Again.”
Gretchen tore her gaze from his and looked around at the restaurant. Their VIP table in the loft gave them a full view of the urban-chic decor. Wrought-iron chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, and exposed-brick walls gave it an unfinished feel. But when paired with the dark woodwork and the ornate gold, it also had an old-world opulence to it.
“I always wondered what it looked like in here,” Gretchen said.
“What do you think?”
“It’s, um . . .” She winced as if reluctant to criticize. “It’s a little over the top.”
“So is Royce.”
“You know him?”
Mack adjusted his sport coat as he sat back in his chair. “We’ve met several times. Charity golf tournaments and that sort of thing. We tend to run in the same circles as business owners.”
“Ah. Of course.” She squinted. “I don’t really run in those circles, you know.”
“You run in more important circles.” Gretchen was a public defender specializing in immigration cases.
Their waiter approached the table with a bottle of chilled Dom Perignon. Mack had ordered it when he’d made the reservation, along with the signature dessert—the Sultan cupcake. It was so elaborate and expensive, it had to be ordered in advance. He couldn’t wait for Gretchen to see it.
“Champagne?” Gretchen asked as the waiter popped the cork.
“We’re celebrating,” Mack said with a wink.
The waiter poured two tall flutes and then left the bottle in a bucket of ice next to the table before saying he’d be back in a few minutes to go over the specials for the night.
“Sure,” Gretchen said, accepting her glass. “So what’s the occasion?”
Mack raised his glass. “I closed the deal today on the new building,” he said. “But more importantly, here’s to us. Three months. And hopefully many more.”
Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes when she clinked her glass with his. He thought at first that he was imagining it, but she looked away when she took a drink.
“Everything okay?”
She swallowed and nodded. “This is wonderful.”
“So are you.”
There it was again. The not quite a smile smile. Mack set down his glass and reached again for her hand. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine. I’m just . . . To be honest, I feel a little guilty being at a place like this.”
“Why?”
“My clients can barely afford boxed macaroni and cheese for their children.”
“Doesn’t mean I can’t spoil you, does it?”
“I don’t need to be spoiled, Mack.”
“But you deserve to be.” He tried again with the wink and the smile. This time it worked. Her fingers relaxed in his.
“Thank you. You definitely know how to wine and dine a woman.”
“I aim to please.” He gave her fingers a final squeeze and let go. “Now I hope you’re hungry. Because I have a surprise for you later.”
Gretchen drank from her champagne and looked at her watch.
“I swear to God, why not just light a thousand bucks on fire?”
Liv Papandreas stepped back from the stainless-steel counter to study her latest culinary masterpiece with a disgusted shake of her head. As a pastry chef at Savoy, it shouldn’t surprise her anymore what the one percent would waste their money on, but sadly, it did. And she had known the minute her boss put the gold-infused cupcake on the menu that the city’s richest celebrities and show-offs would order it in droves just because they could.
Well, that, and so they could pose for an Instagram-worthy photo with Royce Preston, celebrity chef, television host, and the dickhead who signed Liv’s paychecks.
Every week, millions of fans tuned in to his reality show, Kitchen Boss, for a dose of his smooth-talking charm. Little did they know that his smooth-talking charm was as fake as his hair. When the cameras were off, he was a belligerent douchebag who stole most of his recipes from his own staff. Liv had somehow managed to survive an entire year in his kitchen, mostly because she had a stubborn disdain for wealthy posers. Who could’ve guessed that a teenage career in breaking rules and antagonizing authority figures would actually help her someday?
Rumor had it that tonight’s cupcake schmuck was some nightclub owner. Liv wouldn’t know. Nightclubs weren’t really her thing. Because people. People weren’t really her thing either.