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“Done. He wants to meet you at the Wharf House. You’re welcome.”
Imani’s smugness can’t even be argued with—I leave Strictly Pleasures with her reminding me to update her about my lunch date later.
Kaden and I agreed to meet at the Wharf House for a light seafood lunch. I’m not really dressed for a so-called lunch date, especially with a guy who routinely looks like he belongs on the cover of GQ, but there’s nothing I can do about my crop top and leggings now.
On the subway ride to the Wharf House, I luck out and land a seat in the corner. At first, I’m preoccupied with thoughts about my lunch with Kaden—and vague considerations of backing out last minute—but then I pull out my phone to distract myself.
A news alert pops up on my screen. The headline is so shocking and morbid, I gasp and garner several looks from other passengers.
POPULAR VELVET PIANO PERFORMER FOUND MUTILATED AND MURDERED
My heart races in my chest and my throat feels like I’ve swallowed chalk. After the first few seconds of shock pass, I read the article start to finish.
This can’t be true… this can’t be real… who could’ve been attacked?
“Maximillion Keys,” I mutter to myself as if saying it aloud will help me process the bombshell easier. “He’s dead.”
12Kaden
Careful - Lucky Daye
Lyra shows up dressed inappropriately for the Wharf House. Several guests stare with open umbrage from their tables. I rise as the skeptical maître d’ approaches with Lyra closely behind.
“Sir, I apologize for disturbing your lunch experience. However, this woman claims she’s here to meet you. I didn’t see her name listed on the reservation and I did my absolute best to turn her away. Unfortunately, sheinsistedI bring her to you,” he explains in a tone leaking of disapproval.
I raise a brow at him, my demeanor icy. “Perhaps sheinsistedbecause that is the case. She is here meeting me for lunch. Now go be useful and retrieve us a bottle of Slvenbaldi sparkling water. Two glasses. And bring Ms. Hendrix a proper menu.”
The dismissive air surrounding the maître d’ evaporates. He blinks, dumbfounded for a couple amusing seconds, and then stutters out, “Yes… of… of course. I will return in a moment.”
A second passes in which he shuffles off and Lyra turns to me. I move around to pull out her chair. As she lowers herself into the seat and I scoot her in, I bend low enough to speak next to her ear.
“He tried to turn you away because of how you’re dressed.”
“I’ve never been here before. How would I know what to wear?” she asks. Then with a glance around, her expression shifts to its own form of flat disapproval. “I’m not sure I’ve ever eaten somewhere where there was a dress code forlunch.”
“Baring your midriff and wearing tights for pants is generally frowned upon at most restaurants of the Wharf House’s caliber.”
“So if I walked in wearing a thousand dollar dress, he would’ve let me in no problem?”
Aware of what she’s insinuating, I don’t shy away from her probing gaze. I meet it with unblinking honesty. “Possibly not. He may have turned you away for… other reasons.”
“So, then, why should I change the way I dress for people like him when there’s nothing I can do about how he feels?”
“That is true,” I admit. “However, sometimes in order to navigate certain circles, you have to be strategic. Despite how you may detest the rules.”
I should know. I do so every moment I present myself as a well-adjusted man who doesn’t have an unending appetite for violence.
But Lyra isn’t satisfied with my answer. The maître d’ returns to deliver us the bottle of Slvenbaldi water—priced at two hundred dollars each—and pours us our glass. She’s rolling her lips together as I pick mine up and take a sip.
“What?” I ask. “What is it? What’s on your mind?”
“I don’t want to have to navigate these circles. Circlesyouseem to belong to. Which is why I think this lunch is a mistake.”
“I do not belong to any circles. I am my own person.”
“Then why would you invite me here?”
“Because I wanted to treat you to a nice lunch to apologize for the other night—”
