I look to the others for rescue, but they’re no better. Tristan is telling a story about a charity gala in Monaco that sounds rehearsed. Diego is arranging and rearranging the silverware in front of me. Dane just sits there, a silent, imposing presence, occasionally nodding at appropriate intervals.
My eyebrow rises higher. What has gotten into them?
These aren’t the men I know.
The sommelier returns with our wine, and I take mine with a silent prayer it will loosen the obvious nerves.
“To new beginnings,” Tristan says, raising his glass in a toast that sounds like it came from a greeting card.
We all drink. The wine is excellent, of course, but I barely taste it.
The appetizers arrive, tiny works of art on oversized plates. I can’t even identify half the ingredients, but I make appreciative noises as Diego explains each component with the skill of a museum curator.
It’s delicious, but… I miss his pasta. The one he made for me that first night in the penthouse. Food that was meant to comfort.
By the time dessert arrives, I’m utterly miserable. This isn’t a date. It’s a performance.
And I hate it.
Rett is in the middle of explaining something about portfolios when I can’t take it anymore. I slam my fork down on the table. The sound is sharp, startling in the hushed restaurant. All conversation at our table stops abruptly.
Four pairs of eyes fix on me, expressions ranging from surprise to concern.
“Okay,” I say, my voice tight. “I’m done.”
“Is something wrong with the dessert?” Diego asks, already looking around for the waiter.
“No, the dessert is fine,” I say. “It’s perfect. Everything is perfect. That’s the problem.”
They exchange confused glances.
“I don’t understand,” Rett says, his brow furrowing.
“This,” I gesture at the table, the restaurant, all of it, “isn’t a date. This is a job interview, and frankly, you’re allfailing.”
Silence. Four stunned faces stare back at me.
“I’m not interested in dating the Sterling Pack PR department,” I continue, throwing my napkin on the table. “I’m interested in dating the four idiots who were defeated by a smart stove and almost burned down a penthouse trying to make breakfast.”
I stand up, grabbing my clutch. Without waiting for a response, I turn and walk out of the restaurant, feeling the weight of their gazes on my back but not daring to look back.
Outside, the night air is cool and refreshing after the stifling formality of the restaurant. I take a deep breath, letting it fill my lungs, clear my head.
Did I just ruin everything? Was that outburst the final nail in the coffin of whatever this thing between us is?
I just start walking, not really sure where I’m going. Just needing to move, to put some distance between myself and that perfect, terrible restaurant.
My phone buzzes in my clutch. I pull it out, half expecting to see a text from Leah or Helen, a welcome distraction from the mess I’ve just made.
Instead, it’s Rett.
Rett:The Anchor. Picking you up in one minute.
I stare at the message, a surprised laugh bubbling up from my chest. The Anchor. The name of the bar where I tried to take back control. The place where they weren’t the polished Sterling Alphas, but four men in a loud, chaotic room, looking completely out of their depth. The place where Diego spoke from the heart.
Where Rett stared at me like he wanted to devour me whole.
A minute later, the sleek black car pulls upto the curb beside me. The back door opens, and there they are. All four of them, expressions a mixture of chagrin and relief.
