The Billionaire's Flame

I really hate waitressing. I’m twenty-seven years old, and I’ve been doing it pretty much since I graduated high school. I’ve worked at eight different restaurants, but they’re all essentially the same: bitchy, female customers who send their food back three times because it’s too “greasy” or “oily” and rowdy, drunken male customers who try to cop feels every chance they get. The one bright side of my job at the Crimson Cavern is that I don’t have to waitress quite as often. Connor Brooks, the owner of a chain of restaurants including this one—who also happens to be my sort-of-boyfriend—upgraded me to bartender a few months ago, and now the only time I have to wait tables is when we’re extra slammed or get some sort of VIP client. It's both of those things tonight—slammed and a VIP client. “Didn’t you go to high school with him?” my manager, John, asks me when the VIP in question steps into the restaurant. I did. I was in the class below Kieran Sharpe in high school, and the class above his little sister Lindsay, who’s standing next to him, her hand resting lovingly atop her enormous baby bump. There’s a third person with them who I don’t know, but all signs point to her being their mother. I haven’t kept up with Kieran’s accomplishments or activities much since high school. We weren’t exactly friends, and he left for San Francisco almost as soon as he graduated. The Oakland rumor mill spun all kinds of stories about him becoming one of those hot, young Silicon Valley CEO’s, but I couldn’t even tell you the name of his company. Judging from his suit, though, he’s certainly rich. “Yeah,” I tell John, forcing a polite smile as I exit the bar and step onto the restaurant floor. “I’ll be happy to serve him.” Our hostess, Brittany, is a bit of a space cadet. She takes the group to one of the tables in Nina’s section, but John immediately goes to Nina to explain the situation. She looks put-off, of course. She would have loved to serve the fancy CEO. I make a mental note to tell her later that this wasn’t my idea. The idea of waiting on people I once went to school with who are now millionaires, while I still live in the shitty apartment I grew up in with my dying mother, sounds less than appealing. “Welcome to the Crimson Cavern,” I greet the family in the friendliest voice I can muster as I hand them their menus. “How are we doing this evening?” Lindsay and the mother don’t so much as spare me a glance. Lindsay’s pretty, gray eyes are already hungrily sizing up the food menu, while the mother’s are scanning the wine selection. Kieran, though, fixes his gaze onto me immediately. I shift uncomfortably at the intensity of those gray eyes that match his sister’s as he says, “Fine, thank you.” “Great. My name’s Emerson, and I’ll be taking care of you tonight. Have you dined with us before?” He looks bored by my questions, though he doesn’t look bored by me. He seems to be trying to place me, which means thankfully he hasn't recognized me yet. Hopefully I’ll stay forgotten. “I’m the only Oakland local left of the three of us,” the mother explains to me. “I’ve been here once or twice, but these two haven’t set foot in Oakland in years.” “That’s not true!” Lindsay says immediately, glancing at her mother with pouty eyes. “We come here every Christmas, Ma. And most Easters, too.” I have to admit, I’m a bit fascinated by this dynamic. The mother chose to stay here in shitty Oakland while her children went out and became mega-rich? You can even tell from their clothes; Kieran’s suit looks straight out of an Armani catalogue, and Lindsay’s maternity dress looks like it came from Saks Fifth Avenue, but the mother’s frock… Well, it’s sort of boho, I guess I’d say. Looks like she could have made it herself. I really dig it, actually. “Well,” I say politely, not wanting a whole family discourse to break out on account of my question, “we’re known for our steaks, which are excellent, though I strongly recommend the ahi tuna meal. As for the wine, if you’re interested in reds, we have a 2017 Gaja Barbaresco that’s quite tasty.” “We’ll take it,” Kieran says immediately. “Thank you.” Well, that was easy. John is sure to give me a pat on the back for selling a three hundred dollar bottle of wine within the first minute of their time here. “Absolutely. Any other drinks or appetizers for the table?” I help Lindsay select a non-alcoholic beverage, and the mother orders the asparagus fries. The whole time, Kieran’s gaze remains peeled to me, his thick, dark eyebrows knotted together in frustration with his inability to place me. He’s aged even better than the fine wine he just ordered. He was always a handsome guy, but he was skinny in high school and had a sort of awkwardness about him. He’s filled out now—clearly hits the gym for at least an hour every day—and has a sort of hardened confidence about him that makes it very hard to breathe when he’s staring at you like that. As soon as I make it back to the bar, I exhale heavily. “You okay?” Nina asks me with an amused expression as I duck back behind the bar to fetch their bottle. She’s fetching drinks for her table, as well. We’re down to one bartender on a Friday night, so we all need to help out. “Yeah,” I tell Nina as I force my manic breathing to even back out. “Just…” She grins mischievously. “You don’t have to say it. I already know. I so hate you for taking my table.” “I’ll split the tips with you,” I say, even though I really need the money. I don’t want Nina hating me; I have enough enemies in this town already. “Don’t get excited, though. Rich people never tip well.” I plug the appetizer order into our tablet for the kitchen, grab a tray for the wine glasses, and head back to Kieran and Lindsay’s table. The Crimson Cavern isn’t quite a fancy enough establishment for me to do the whole uncorking-and-giving-him-a-taste thing, but he did just order a three hundred dollar bottle, so I go through the motions. He swirls and sniffs the glass with the grace of someone who’s quite learned in the practice, but he doesn’t seem particularly interested in it. He takes a sip of the wine, nods, and hands me his glass back for more. He's staring at me again. “Oh, my God,” says Lindsay as I pour. “I knew you looked familiar! Emmy Taylor, right?” I stiffen. It was nice while it lasted, at least. Now I have to feign my own confusion. “No one’s called me Emmy in a long time. Do we know each other?” “We went to high school together!” Lindsay sounds genuinely stoked. She also seems to buy my fabricated ignorance. “You were in the class above me. We had jazz band together, remember? You were so talented.” I feel my cheeks turn pink at that. Lindsay, bless her heart, was not a talented musician. She was a nice girl, though. “Oh, right. Lindsay, right?” Lindsay nods eagerly. I glance at Kieran, whose expression gives away the much more genuine lightbulb moment than my recently faked one. “I’m Kieran,” he says, extending a hand. “We spoke a few times.” I stare down at his hand, suddenly feeling very small and insignificant. It’s not just the size of that very strong hand; it’s the commanding way his deep voice informed me that he remembers me and therefore I should remember him, too. I do remember him, of course. I’ll never forget the one conversation (not “a few;” it was only ever the one) we had back then. Do you need help? No, thank you. Do you? No. A shiver overtakes me when I shake his hand. It isn’t the bad kind of shiver; it’s the kind that runs through you when you feel something you aren’t used to feeling. Maybe it’s the strength of his grip; maybe it’s the size of it; maybe it’s the warmth of it. Whatever it is, it’s… nice. Nice enough that I feel strangely disappointed when he pulls away. “Right,” I say, forcing myself to remain vertical when all my body seems to want to do is collapse. “What can I get you for dinner?”