He shrugs. “I’m more of a hockey guy.”
I press my lips together, fighting a smile. “Was the lobster overcooked?”
“Fuck no.” He looks at me sideways. “He shouldn’t have called you a bitch.”
“You heard that?” I brave a larger sip, barely flinching this time. Maybe whisky is growing on me. Maybe it’s just a good distraction from imagining how fast my public fuck-up is spreading online. Even though Ryan was the asshole first, no one will know. I’ve been called a lot of nasty things in comments and messages since I became an influencer, and something tells me this will only add fuel to that fire.
“Me and everyone else in the vicinity.”
My teeth drag across my lip. I fiddle with my hair, carefully curled over my shoulders. I wish I thought to put a hair tie in my purse. “He’s the point guard who brought the Knicks to the NBA Finals last season. He can do pretty much anything and get away with it.”
“And you?”
“I’m just a pretty face.” It’s the truth; it shouldn’t sting so much.
Despite my parents’ best efforts, I never found a way into a career they approve of. I make my living through brand deals and sponsorships, dressing up like a doll for Reels and Carousels and TikTok Lives. Inviting me somewhere, be it a fashion show or party or gallery opening, means guaranteed views and shares. When I promote a product, new customers come flocking. I know what I’m good for—and I know Jack knows it, too. There’s a reason he calls mePrincess.
Our knees brush underneath the bar. Mine, bare past the hem of my skirt, and his, clad in the ugly-hot pants all chefs seem to wear when they work. He runs his finger over the rim of my glass, smudging the coral pink lipstick stain on the rim. As I watch, he sticks his finger—along with the traces of my lipstick—into his mouth and sucks it clean.
“Messy,” he chides.
My eyes widen, elbow slipping off the bar top. I fight to ignore the heat gathering in my belly. A quick glance shows me we’re still alone, minus the barkeep and a lone old guy in the corner nursing a beer. “Hartman.”
“I’m Hartman, now?”
“You’re a lot of things. Annoying things. Just to be clear. Also, that’s not lip gloss, it doesn’t taste like anything good, so really, the joke’s on—”
“I lied,” he says abruptly, finishing his drink. “Your father didn’t screw me out of anything. I fucked up.”
“Oh.”
He smiles tightly. “I have no one to blame but myself.”
“What happened?”
“A lot of this,” he says, gesturing around the bar. “Not a lot of work.”
“Why?” He looks at me for a long moment, as if debating the merits of continuing the honesty streak. I didn’t expect him to say much when I suggested this game, but now I need to know the whole story. “I won’t share it with anyone.”
A hard swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He pours another drink, downs it in one go. Pours me another, too. “First place I worked at was the Sailfish, down in Diamond Bay. Little town on the coast in Florida.”
“Is that where you’re from? Diamond Bay?” I don’t know much about Florida beyond the big cities, Miami and Tampa and Jacksonville. Whenever I think about it, I get mental images of swampland and hurricanes and alligators with blood-stained teeth.
“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Sal, the owner—he found me when I was fifteen, trying to dine and dash. Hauled my ass back to the kitchen and made me scrub pots and pans to pay for my meal.”
“And what, you wanted to stay?”
“Something like that. He became a—a mentor.” He scratches his beard, shutting his eyes briefly. When he opens them again, he looks morose. A little lost. Sympathy tugs, unexpectedly, at my heart. “Sal died not too long ago, and I guess I just... lost it. In and out of the kitchen. Your father knew, but he couldn’t look the other way anymore.”
“I’m sorry.” I lay my hand over his, squeezing his tanned, tattooed fingers gently. At his disbelieving look, I press on. “No, really. That’s awful. Obviously, Sal was important to you. I can’t believe my dad would just—”
“Sal left me the restaurant. The Sailfish.”
“Oh, wow.” I bite my lip as an idea—likely unwelcome—tumbles into my mind.
“Yeah.” He huffs out a laugh, as if remembering something. “It used to be the best place to get a meal north of West Palm Beach.”
I can’t help myself; my next words come out in an excited, breathless rush. “You’re going to run it, right? Now that you don’t have a job here? Because my dad can be really tough sometimes, trust me, I know, but he talks about you all the time. Seriously. He knows how talented you are, so maybe if you show him what you can do—”
