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She must have spotted theHcarved over the door, because she says, “It’s the Heritage club, right?”
I nod, tilting my head toward the entrance. “The very same place where you trespassed, yep. Come in.”
The grand entryway has her gasping, her eyes taking in everything. I lead us to the elegant receptionist in a white suit.
“Mr. Goltz,” he greets me cheerfully. “I’ve read your communication. You are bringing a new petal to us?”
I incline my head. “Sarah Andrews. She’s about to sign the NDA.”
I stare at her pointedly, daring her to push the subject. Again.
“Petal?” she prompts, frowning.
But she takes the tablet Justin hands her, scanning through the same paperwork I asked her to sign days ago.
“That’s our nomenclature for prospective female members,” Justin replies simply—arguably glossing over a few points, but none are relevant to Sarah.
She was invited by me, with my father’s okay, and if prompted, a dozen members would also have shown their support. She doesn’t need to prove anything.
“Petals get full membership benefits, and none of the associated costs,” he adds.
Shit, he should write out flyers.Come over to our luxurious swinger club! We have cookies.
She quickly scribbles her name without protest, still frowning.
“And I’m a petal?”
I sigh. So many questions. “You’re coming here and not paying for it.”
Before she has more asinine questions, I usher her to the restaurant. She said she was hungry, and come to think of it, I could eat, too.
Then, we play. And I make her forget she ever touched Rhys fucking Voss.
* * *
Sarah looks immensely uncomfortable, menu in hand, scanning the full length of the page for the second time in as many minutes.
“What’s the matter?” I prompt.
“Oh, nothing.” Her voice is at least three notes higher than usual. “Did you see the fucking senator dining next to us? With an actress. Who isn’t his wife. And the members of the biggest pop band of the decade are fingering a famous designer under the table like it’s nothing,” she hisses quietly.
“Transcendenceis highly overrated if you ask me,” I reply with an eye roll.
“The point is, they’re here,” she shoots back, hiding behind her menu, and flushing.
I cock an eyebrow. “You’re a fan?”
I wouldn’t have pegged her for the alternative pop lover type.
“I’m not a fan of five-star Michelin restaurants without prices on the menu and full of actual stars when I’m all sweaty from work!”
“Ah.” I frown, because she has a point. I should have gotten her a clean outfit. “Next time, we’ll change first. You need help with the menu?”
She closes it with a snap. “I’ve never eaten anything in there.”
I take it as a yes. “Well, I eat here weekly. Use me. What do you usually like?”
“Anything is good. I’m not fussy. Food is food.”
