He notices her attention on him and immediately runs his hand through his hair, preening. Unbothered by being the second choice. Without missing a beat, he downs his glass of whiskey and says, “We were just finishing up here. Want to walk out together?”
“No, you guys go ahead. I’m going to hang out for a while, maybe rest my eyes a bit.”
“Okay, man, we’ll see you tomorrow.” He stands, draping an arm around Charlene’s shoulder as she beams a bright smile up at him. Weird how women can turn it on and off on a whim. Dating in this city has shown me enough to know that you can’t trust any of them. They’re all the same.
“Good night,” Charlene says sweetly, tracing fingers along my still-exposed forearm as she passes. Julian looks back over his shoulder as they’re walking out and mouths, “Thank you”, in my direction.
I wave a hand in dismissal.
My head feels like a ton of bricks. I cross my arms on the bar top and drop my head against them, yawning. I don’t know how long I stay that way, but I must doze off at some point, because the sound of the kitchen door snapping shut startles me awake.
My head whips up, neck cracking in the process, and I wince at the sharp popping sensation. My heart races, breaths shallow, as I squint my eyes and try to make sense of the figure moving toward me. Between the dim lighting and my still-unfocused gaze, it’s hard to make out who it is.
“Alexander,” the deep timbre of my father’s voice slices through the darkness. I’m equally relieved and put off by his presence. “How did the night go?”
I rub my eyes and groan. “Went off without a hitch, if you don’t count my firing Lawrence as a hitch.”
No reaction from Chet Harrington, per usual. He’s even more cavalier than I am.
“You’ll find a replacement, I’m sure. We have a queue of applicants a mile long.” He’s not wrong, but his nonchalance grates against my nerves.
“It was good being back on the line again. Maybe I’ll take the open position.” I say it jokingly, but once the words leave my lips, it doesn’t feel humorous at all. Being in the middle of it all silenced my mind in a way I haven’t felt in a long time.
I was the eye of the storm, and it felt…Fuck, it felt good.
“Absolutely not,” my father quips, unbuttoning his suit jacket and sitting on one of the plush stools. He reaches across the bar and grabs the crystal decanter of Crown Royal XR. He pours a measure into one of the heavy tumblers, the amber liquid catching the overhead light as he swirls the glass in one hand.
Honey and spice drift toward me.
My mouth waters, but I don’t partake. Father doesn’t make casual visits to his restaurants, which means he came here specifically for me. I don’t want to think about how he knew I was still here when the rest of the staff is long gone.
Asshole probably has a tracker on me.
“I’m going to cut right to the chase because neither of us has ever appreciated small talk.” He takes a sip from his glass, then sucks his teeth as he sets the tumbler down.
Dread sinks in my gut, tight and heavy. Nothing good has ever come from a sentence like that. I roll my shoulders and crack my neck before leveling my gaze on his. “Go on.”
“We have decided—”
“Who is we?” I immediately interrupt.
His steely eyes flare at the intrusion.
“The board.” My father’s voice is laced with warning. “We are sending you to the States as an ambassador for The Harrington Group on an upcoming project. It’s not our usual scene, but we all agree that we need to extend our reach beyond Canada. We’ve made our mark here; it’s time to expand.”
Expand into the States? I haven’t heard anything of the sort until this moment. To be fair, I haven’t attended any of the “mandatory” meetings this quarter either, but there’s no way Icompletelymissed that discussion.
When I don’t say anything, he continues. “This is a chance to showcase Harrington excellence to the U.S. market. Culinary prestige, media reach, potential partnerships. It’s the logical next step for the business.”
I press my lips together and force a smile that feels suspiciously like a grimace. “That’s still pretty vague.”
“FluxTV has a new series it’s cooked up that they’re pitching as the American reality TV version ofThe Great British Bake Off.”
The words land like a sucker punch. I choke on the air trying to enter my lungs. “You aren’t serious…”
“I never joke about opportunity, son.”
“Because nothing screams prestigious opportunity like a trashy reality series.” I don’t even try to keep my disdain at bay. There isno wayI’m doing this.
