Page 112 of Taming Tesla

“Different?” One of Davey’s bushy brows arches over a dark brown eye.

“He—” I suddenly don’t know how to explain it. What about who he was last night upset me so much. The suit? The car? The fact that he’s at ease in places I’ll never fit into.

“Tell you what,” Davey says. “You eat and I tell you the story of how Patrick and I met.”

“He already told me,” I say, picking up the spoon anyway. “You asked him to design a new restaurant.”

“Is that what he told you?” Davey laughs again. “I suppose it’s half true.”

Now I’m confused. “Why would he—”

He jerks his chin at the plate in front of me. “If you want the story, you’ll have to eat.”

Because I’m curious on multiple fronts, I pick up the spoon. Using it to cut into the perfectly crafted mound of chocolate and crème in front of me, I can’t help but wince a little. My guilt over destroying perfection dissipates the moment the bite hits my tongue.

I’m pretty sure I moaned.

Davey gives me a satisfied nod. “Patrick and his cousin had been coming in here quite often,” he says, starting his story, as promised. “Bringing their rich clients and their vapid wives in to seal the deal for their mansions and vacations estates. Anyway—” He waves a hand and rolls his eyes. “One particular night, we were busy—a waiter got sick. A busboy didn’t show. It was a mess,” he says while I inhale the dessert in front of me. “One of my bussers—sweet girl—was clearing plates in a rush. She was new at the time and not very good under pressure. She dropped a knife. It fell off the plate she was clearing and onto the table in front of the client. He became irate. Belittled and insulted her until she was in tears.”

I thought of the people I saw here last night and can easily believe that one of them would lose their minds over something like that. “What did Patrick do?” I’m afraid to ask. The Patrick I knew would’ve been kind. He would’ve helped her. Put her at ease.

But the Patrick I knew wouldn’t know Tom Ford from Tom Thumb. He loved his pick-up. Drank beer and ate pizza. He was as far from James Templeton as a person could possibly get.

“He told the guy to shove his McMansion up his ass—that he wouldn’t design it, even if he were starving in the streets—and followed my busser, straight into the kitchen, to make sure she was okay.” Davey smiles and shakes his head like he still can’t believe what he’s about to say next. “And then, seeing how short-staffed we were, hung up his suit jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and bussed my tables in his five-thousand-dollar suit, until dinner service was over.”

“Patrick did that?” I say, not sure what I’m feeling.

Relief.

Pride.

Love.

“He did that.” Davey nods. “Maybe I don’t know the same Patrick you do,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “Maybe the man you left behind is completely different from the one I know—but I can promise you, whoever that man was, he isn’t any better than the one he is now.”

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