AllFreeNovel
Share Us
He sighed. “It’s not . . . I’m not ungrateful, truly. I know I’m lucky to be where I am, but it’s hard when people constantly underestimate you. In this industry, perception is everything. And I can’t help but wonder if maybe I had launched my career on something else, something a little more sophisticated, that maybe they’d take me more seriously.”
“Maybe they’d take you seriously if you weren’t constantly doing things to get yourself in trouble,” I pointed out, because I refused to feel sorry for the boy who had everything.
“Fair enough. But I’m trying to change that.”
I shot him a questioning glance that said I didn’t believe him. After all, the gulf cart incident happened only a week ago.
“But anyway,” he continued, “you don’t exactly strike me as the Treemont High type, even if your mom is. You definitely don’t seem like a fan.”
I shrugged, avoiding his gaze for fear he might see the truth in my eyes. Because I loved the Treemont High movies. The posters hung on my wall for two years before they faded from the sun and Mom made me take them down. I still knew all the songs by heart, too.
But there was no way I was telling him that, so instead, I simply murmured, “Yeah, you’re right. Not my jam.” And then I changed the subject for fear he might call me out on my bluff.
When he pulled over and stopped the car, I glanced at the time on his car’s dash, shocked to see more than thirty minutes had passed. Cars zipped by us as Thorne turned off the ignition, and a valet appeared outside a restaurant I didn’t recognize.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“It’s just a little place I’ve been coming to since I arrived on location. Not many people know about it, so it’s great for keeping things low-key.”
I could see why.
I glanced out my window at a sign, with a tiny scrawl I could barely make out, announcing the name of a restaurant above, and an unmarked door on what appeared to be an old turn of the century building. Plaster and white paint sparsely covered red brick, crumbling in spots, giving it an antiqued and vintage appearance people paid a fortune to recreate.
“This looks cool,” I said, still staring up at it.
“It used to be an old firehouse.”
“I wonder what happened to it.” I pressed my face closer to the glass when the sound of Thorne closing his car door reminded me I needed to get out.
I opened my door and met him on the sidewalk, wrapping my arms around myself to ward off the cold, wishing I’d brought my coat. When he offered his hand, I hesitated before tentatively taking it, hating the way my insides squeezed at his touch as I followed him through the doors.
Once inside, he removed his sunglasses with his free hand, followed by his ballcap, and unsurprisingly, the server’s eyes brightened in recognition. “Mr. Roberts, perfect timing. We’re all ready, and your table’s waiting for you,” she said.
She flashed him a brilliant smile, then gestured for him to head into the dining room.
My eyes scanned our surroundings as we walked, loving the open ceiling where industrial plumbing and old heating vents were painted bright white. Light from antiqued brass chandeliers offered a golden glow, softening the rich mahogany woodwork.
We stopped at a booth, and he waved me on, so I slid onto the soft leather bench and glanced around me. Each table was topped with the same white linens as ours, like they were waiting for patrons, but the place was quite obviously empty. Not a soul in sight.
“I reserved the place,” he said, breaking through my thoughts.
Was I that easy to read?
My gaze flickered to my surroundings once more. There had to be thirty tables. “You mean a table, right?”
He shook his head. “No. The whole restaurant. I reserved it.”
Casual. Cool. Calm. Just like that—I reserved it.
I shook my head, unsure of what to say. I mean, I knew he was a millionaire, maybe even a billionaire—I hadn’t exactly taken time to Google his net worth on the way here—but I failed to fathom having that kind of cash. Enough to reserve an entire restaurant for hours on a whim.
“I know the owners,” he supplied, like that explained away the extravagance. “They’re pretty amenable, and with the media having a field day right now with this whole golf cart thing, the last thing I wanted was someone overhearing our conversation and giving them more ammunition.”
I frowned. What kind of conversation we could possibly have that would give someone ammunition on him?
My mind flickered to this supposed business proposal, and my stomach tightened with dread.
“Are paparazzi really that bad?” I asked, hoping to quell my nerves.
