Page 99 of Possession

“I know,” he says, holding up his hands defensively. “But it’s Table 21.”

I frown. “So? This isn’t The Four Seasons. I don’t personally answer questions about wings.”

“You’re becoming a real snob, you know that?”

“Whatever,” I mutter, turning back to the fryer. “Isn’t dealing with customers your job? Especially since Megan’s on extended maternity leave?”

“Do you want to be the one to tell your brother you couldn’t be bothered with customer service in his club?”

I glare at him, but Gage stands firm, his smirk almost daring me to argue.

“Fine,” I huff, untying my apron. “But you owe me.”

“Sure thing, chef,” he says with a wink.

As I step into the main room, the steady hum of conversation and clinking glasses fills the air. The dim, moody lighting casts a warm glow over the sleek tables and dark wood accents, a far cry from the chaos of the kitchen. Gage gestures toward Table 21, where two men sit surrounded by plates of food and imported beer.

“The one in blue,” he says, pointing subtly.

I let out a slow breath, still cradling my burned hand in a tea towel. If I’m going to turn Blue Whiskey into something better, I have to learn to deal with situations like this. Plastering on a professional smile, I approach the table.

“Hello, I’m Lena, the chef here,” I say, my voice polite but firm.

The man in the ink-blue jacket turns his head, and my breath catches. He’s… striking. Dark hair, almond-shaped eyes, and creamy tan skin that suggests a mixed heritage—maybe Asian and Latino, or Black? His broad shoulders and sharp jawline only add to the effect, and for a moment, I’m speechless.

“Lena,” he repeats, his voice rich and smooth.

I clear my throat, trying to regain my composure. “Yes. You had a question about the food?”

“Not a question,” he says, his tone casual but edged with arrogance. “A comment.”

The man beside him snickers, clearly anticipating what’s coming next.

“Oh?”

“Our meal tastes like we’re paying you for a heart attack.”

My smile falters. “Excuse me?”

“It’s ridiculously salty.”

His words land like a slap, and suddenly, he’s not striking—he’s infuriating.

“You brought me out here to tell me that parmesan wings and truffle fries from a nightclub are salty?”

“I thought you should know.”

“Order something else.”

“I would,” he says with a smirk, “but I’m afraid for my life.”

His friend snorts, barely containing his laughter.

“Sorry to hear you don’t like the cuisine,” I say, my tone icy. “Why don’t you and your friend go somewhere else?”

“Is that how you talk to your customers?”

“Just the rude ones.”

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