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I’d believed him. Believed that this restaurant would be my legacy, the thing that proved I was more than just Charles Milton’s fuck-up son.

What a joke. It’s laughable.

It’s a monument to my failures, proof that I am Charles Milton’s fuck-up son who had this foolish dream of becoming a chef.

I check my watch. Forty-five minutes. That’s a new record, even for Naomi.

Marcus approaches again, and this time, I don’t wait for him to speak. “Get me whatever Elliot’s cooking tonight.” If I’m going to sit here like an idiot, I might as well eat.

I grab my phone, tap Naomi’s contact, and hit call. The ring echoes in my ear once, twice?—

“Hi, you’ve reached Naomi Smith. Please leave a?—”

I hang up and try again.

One ring. Two rings.

“Hi, you’ve reached?—”

“God damn it, Naomi.” My fingers grip the phone tighter. “Pick up your fucking phone.”

Third time’s the charm, right?

Ring.

“Hi, you’ve reached Naomi Smith. Please leave a message after the tone.”Beeeep.

“Listen, cupcake.” I lean back in my chair, running a hand over my face. “I know you’re screening my calls. Real mature.What happened to our deal? I showed up to that fucking memorial like you wanted. I played nice.”

The engaged couple, given she said yes, shoots me a look.

I lower my voice. “You can’t just ghost me after—” After what? After I followed her into the bathroom? After I called her out on her bullshit? After she called me out on mine? “Just… call me back. Please.”

I hang up, staring at her contact photo. The one that’s been haunting me for weeks.

My arm curves around Naomi’s waist, holding her close against my chest. Her black dress hugs every curve, and her face is tilted up toward mine, those dark soufflé eyes wide with something between anticipation and fear. Her lips are parted, just slightly, like she’s caught mid-breath.

There’s nothing fake about the heat in her and my eyes, the way we look at each other. My fingers press possessively into her hip, and even in this frozen moment, you can see how her body melts into mine.

If you didn’t know better, you’d think we were actually…

It’s a good photo. Too good.

The whiskey, I don’t remember ordering, arrives, Marcus setting it beside my water.

“Should I cancel the food order, sir?”

“No.” I knock back half of it. “And bring another one of these, please.”

My thumb hovers over Naomi’s number again. What’s that definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over, expecting different results?

Fuck it.

I hit call.

Ring.

“Hi, you’ve reached Naomi Smith. Please leave a message after the tone.”

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