He smiled. “I know I’m pretty. The clever part’s just a bonus.”
“You need to be careful.”
“Why?” he taunted. “You might finally lose that iron composure of yours and touch me? Take what you want but won’t allow yourself to?”
That landed like a punch. My jaw clenched as the reality of what he said collided with the fantasies playing in my head, turning them to ash. He didn’t understand. The pressure of expectation to be this perfect person when I was screaming inside to be anything but what I was. He was wild, impulsive, and reckless, something I’d never been a day in my life.
Sin’s smile faltered—for just a second—but then it sharpened into something brighter. More brat than ever. He turned toward the door and sauntered out with a careless little wave over his shoulder.
“One of these days,” he said without looking back, “you’re going to snap.”
He didn’t say what he meant bysnap.
But I knew.
Because I was already halfway there.
I collapsed into my chair and ran my hands through my hair in frustration, feeling the weight of the world crushing me. My chest was tight, my breathing shallow and fast. Perspiration beaded on my brow and trickled down the back of my neck. My hands trembled as I loosened my tie and undid the top button of my shirt, desperate for relief, for air—anything to feel like I wasn’t being buried alive in a coffin shaped like a country club.
The second the door snicked shut behind Sinclair, it opened again. I didn’t even have to look up to know who it was. The scent of department store cologne and a sour attitude gave him away.
“Sir,” Timothy said in a tone that suggested I was somehow beneath him despite the title, “what washedoing in here?”
I lifted my gaze slowly, steeling my features. “Who?”
“Sinclair,” he spat the name like it burned his tongue. “He should be in the restaurant. Not skiving off while the rest of us actually work.”
I straightened in my chair, spine pulled taut like a bowstring. I redid my tie, fingers shaking slightly under the weight of his judgment.
“He was passing along a message from table sixteen.”
Timothy’s jaw clicked as he clenched it. “If there was acomplaint,it should have come throughme.Iamthe assistant manager. It’s my responsibility to field any service issues.”
The sigh that escaped me was quiet but bitter, laced with a thousand things I couldn’t say out loud. It took everything in me not to roll my eyes at him and his blatant posturing.
“They weren’t complaining,” I said, voice flat. “They were offering compliments. Said the server was charming, and the service exceeded expectations. They asked for the owner to be informed.”
Timothy’s expression wavered for half a second before he schooled it back into smug superiority. He straightened his cuffs like he’d been the one praised.
“Good,” he smiled, already trying to claim the credit. “I told you the improvements were paying off.”
You told me?I almost laughed. Instead, I kept my eyes on the report in front of me, jaw clenched so tight I thought my teeth might crack. The truth was, I’d spent weeks—months—fighting through Calhoun’s crusted-over resistance and my father’s silent, suffocating indifference just to drag this place out of the last century. Even before I officially took over, I was already doing the work. The menu overhaul, the new supplier contracts, the pilot brunch events—that was all me. Not Timothy. Not Calhoun, who spent more time on the green than mentoring me. And certainly not my father, who only checked in to make sure I hadn’t run his legacy into the ground.
But I kept quiet. Because that was what was expected.
“I assume the decor refresh is still in limbo?” Timothy asked, already answering for me. “Calhoun won’t budge, you know. Says the chandeliers are ‘historic.’” He said the word like it meant ‘too expensive to touch.’
“I’m working on it,” I replied coolly. “We’re starting with the gallery lounge. New art. New seating. Small steps.”
Timothy scoffed. “As long as you don’t lethimnear it.”
I looked up sharply and raised my brow in question.
“Sinclair,” he muttered, eyes flashing. “You’re letting him get too comfortable. He’s loud, unprofessional, and disrespectful. You might think he’s harmless, but staff like that spread discord. Infectious. You’ll have the whole floor ignoring protocol before long.”
“He’s good at his job.” The words were out before I could stop myself. “The guests like him.”
“They liked the dancing monkey at the holiday party too,” Timothy snapped. “Doesn’t mean we gave it a permanent role.”
