Chapter 187
She sighs, dramatic. “How fresh it is. How it’s cooked. Whether I’ve had antihistamines. My mood. Whether Mercury’s in retrograde. You know the usual.”
–
I chuckle and press a kiss to her hair. “So basically, no shrimp.”
“Basically,” she mutters. She sounds properly mournful. “I’ll just get rice.”
I glance at her. “You want to spend eight hundred dollars on something we can boil in fifteen minutes at home?”
She shivers a little – not from the cold. I smirk wider. She’s easier to
read than she thinks.
“You know what?” she says, deadly serious. “Next date night, we’re getting McDonald’s.”
“I’m on a diet,” I reply. Then shrug. “Ish. And weren’t you the one who said dates should be at fancy places with candlelight and overpriced table water?”
–
someone I’ve seen here more than once
–
The waitress
comes by to take our order, I do the honours. Emilia doesn’t stop me, but I swear I can hear the calculator whirring in her brain the second she guesses the price
She really should stop worrying so much. What’s the point of having a millionaire for a future husband if she’s not collecting the perks of being a millionaire’s future wife?
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She’s a strange one. Mine, though.
“I take it back,” she says. “Are we really just going to cat? What’s so fun about this?”
I raise a brow. “Spending time with me, obviously.”
She hums thoughtfully. “Eh. I’d rather be watching Confidential Family.”
“Even you don’t believe that.”
“What? It’s a good show!”
“It’s nonsense,” I say. “I’ve watched five episodes and I still don’t know what’s going on.”
“That’s because it’s not for shallow minds,” she says, eyes twinkling.
I laugh. “It’s not for minds at all. What even is the plot?”
She sits up, animated now. “It’s about a broke college student who accidentally robs the richest family on the East Coast. She doesn’t even know it. She thinks it’s just some shady old mansion, but it turns out she’s stolen a flash drive that holds secrets about a bio–engineered virus some psychopaths are trying to release and become billionaires.”
so they can sell the cure
I stare at her. “You do realise how completely deranged that sounds?”
“Shhh.” She presses a hand over my mouth. “You’re asking the wrong questions.”
My eyes narrow. “What questions should I be asking?”
She grins. “Like why the family she robbed suddenly decides to
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her tuition and makes her the roommate of their daughter so they can keep tabs on her and, you know, eventually eliminate her.”
I stare at her. “You hear yourself, right?”
She rolls her eyes. “Hating things that are popular doesn’t make you edgy, Liam. They drop one episode a week, and every time, Jessica goes viral for something new. Last week it was her tan, this week it’s her speaking French, running a hand through her hair, or dramatically smashing a typewriter. It’s always something.”
Then, just as quickly as the excitement came, it flickers out. Her expression softens into something smaller, more thoughtful.
“I really hate this,” she murmurs. “No wonder people say never meet your heroes.”
I rest my hand on the top of her head and smooth her hair gently. “I did. warn you.”
—
Before she can reply, the food arrives – beautifully plated, almost too pretty to eat – and the dining room has started to swell with more guests, laughter, and the low hum of a band warming up. The lights dim just slightly, casting everything in golden warmth, and something about the buzz in the air feels like the quiet before a show.
Emilia glances around, brows raised as she takes in the now–packed room. “Is it always this full in here?”
I follow her gaze to the small stage in the corner, where someone’s just stepped up to adjust the mic. “Depends on who’s performing,” I murmur, leaning back, “But I’ve got a feeling tonight’s gonna be a good one.”
She eyes me suspiciously. “How do you even make friends with people who own places like this?”
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Her tone is half envy, half awe — all Emilia.
“If only Tessa cared about our future enough to open a speakeasy,” she adds under her breath, sighing dramatically.
I chuckle. “He’s Mar’s cousin, actually. I’ve been making little investments since Daniel first floated the idea. Back when this was just a dream and an empty basement with questionable plumbing.”
Her brows lift again, this time impressed.
—
“They don’t really need investors anymore — it’s basically New York’s worst–kept secret at this point – but I still get a cut. And a regular booth. Perks of being an early believer,” I grin. “And I like chatting with the staff. They tell me when there’s something good on the menu, or if someone famous showed up last week with no pants on.”
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