“Pity jewelry? Really?” I shove the box back across the table. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a phone. Someone recording. “Is this because of the team charity thing? Because your mom was the one who said girls don’t really have ADHD.”
Loudly. At a table in front of my parents, my sister, and her wife, and half a dozen other people. What was her charming parting shot again?Although if any girl did, I suppose it would be you, Poppy.
“And that’s a good reason to bring out your pill organizer in the middle of a fucking charity ball?” he shoots back.
“I wanted to show her she was wrong!”
His jaw ticks. “That’s the thing, okay? You’re embarrassing. You’re a bad look for the team. A bad look for me. I can’t be constantly running after a brat.”
Brat. The short word burns me like a brand. I’ve heard that one before. From my parents, from ex-boyfriends. Even a professor once.
“You... were embarrassed by me?” I whisper.
“I’ll send your things to your parents’ place.”
He makes to get up—to abandon me here, before our entrees are even out—when the door to the kitchen bangs open.
A tall, broad-shouldered man in a stained chef’s jacket strides into the dining room, eyes ablaze. Whatever I was about to say shrivels in my throat at the sight of Jack Hartman.
We haven’t been face-to-face since last summer, at the disaster of Julia’s wedding. He has a few more tattoos than I remember, and a dark, wild-edged beard to match his hair, but his eyes are the same, a tempest of green. He stops a few tables away, staring down anolder man in a tweed jacket. He pierces the air with his index finger, practically jamming it into the man’s nose.
“Fuck you, Whittaker. You’ve had it out for me for five fucking years, and now you send back your lobster? Like hell it was overcooked!”
The man adjusts his round glasses as he stands. He manages to look imposing, even though Jack’s a full head taller than him. Maybe it’s the blazer. Or maybe he has experience with chefs losing their shit in front of him. I place him, suddenly. Bret Whittaker. Dad has complained about him time after time; he’s the harshest critic in New York’s fine dining scene. “The texture was completely rubbery. It was quite out of line with the usual experience at Pa—”
Jack practically growls with disgust. “There wasn’t a fucking thing wrong with it, and you know it.”
“Is this how Douglas Winfield allows his staff to behave?”
I gasp audibly. Jack’s gaze darts around the dining room, landing on me.
If possible, his scowl deepens. He looks torn for a second, as if part of him wants to go after me instead. Just like last summer.
I didn’tmeanfor that shrimp to hit him in the face. Really. I just couldn’t take his arrogant voice one second longer.
I need to escape. Get some air.
I stand, but get tangled in the tablecloth, knocking over Ryan’s drink. He jumps to his feet, a dark stain spreading over the crotch of his light gray slacks.
“Damnit, Poppy!” he snaps.
A nervous giggle escapes me. “Oh my god.”
“You did that on purpose,” Ryan seethes, voice rising. “Fucking bitch.”
My eyes widen at his ugly tone. “What? No.”
Behind us, Jack is still arguing with Bret Whittaker. That makes me laugh harder, nearly hysterical, even if absolutely nothing is funny about this situation; in fact, I wish a spontaneous earthquake would send me plummeting to Earth’s core. I take a few steps in the direction of the door, only to bump hard into another table. Everywhere I look, people are staring. Whispering. Some outright talking, their voices rising over Jack’s argument.
“That’s definitely Ryan McCabe.”
“And Poppy Winfield.”
“Wait, as in @itspoppywinfield? Holy shit.”
“Is that a Tiffany’s ring box?”
“She doesn’t have anything on her finger.”
