Chapter One
“He tried to give me a lap dance, Farrah. In the middle of a four-star restaurant.” Olivia Tang paced the length of Ishikawa’s black-marbled bathroom, her heels clicking against the tile floors in agitation. “I like this place. The sushi is great, and it scores at least an eight out of ten on everything else I require from my favorite dine-out places—service, ambiance, decor, location, clean bathrooms. I refuse be banned for my momentary lapse in judgment in agreeing to dinner with a guy named Wesley.”
Her best friend, Farrah Lin-Ryan, laughed, the silvery sound tinkling over their transcontinental call in a wash of familiarity. Olivia hadn’t heard that laugh in person in months—not since she, Farrah, and their other friends, Courtney Taylor and Kris Carrera (soon-to-be Kris Reynolds), flew to Miami for a girls’ trip in February. She missed having her best friend in the same city, but a phone call was better than nothing, especially when she was on yetanotherdisaster of a date.
“Say you have an emergency and cut the date short,” Farrah suggested. “I’ll call you in a few and pretend I’m a close family member that got rushed to the hospital.”
“I would, but I want to try the dessert.” Olivia ran a hand through her sleek, just-below-shoulder-length black hair and examined her reflection. She’d been optimistic about tonight and had run out of the office so she had enough time to get ready. Two hours later, her hair was perfect, her makeup accentuated her bright dark eyes and rosebud lips, and her elegantly provocative black dress clung to her slender frame. Comfy but sexy heels added an extra three inches to her five-foot-five frame.
What a waste.
All that time, energy, and makeup for nothing.
“They’re famous for their dessert,” Olivia added, oddly compelled to explain why she was staying. “Caramelized apple and kuromoji ice cream served with muesli.”
There were few things she wouldn’t do for good food. Maybe it was because she couldn’t cook to save her life, so she relied on other people’s cooking skills for culinary satisfaction. Whatever it was, Olivia’s food obsession had taken her to sometimes-sketchy, always-delicious places since she was old enough to distinguish between a hand roll and a maki roll.
“Sounds yummy. Well, you’re in the middle of the main course, right? You’re almost there. Just make sure Wesley doesn’t, um, pull another Magic Mike.” Farrah sounded like she was trying not to laugh again.
“Yeah, yeah, make fun of me, you happily married newlywed,” Olivia grumbled. “You’re not the one slogging through the swamps of single life in modern America.”
“Newlywed or not, I still love you.”
“I know.” Olivia sighed. “I better get back out there before Wesley thinks I fell in the toilet or something. I swear, this dessert better be worth it.”
“I’m sure it will. Call me later and let me know how it goes? Love ya.”
“Love you, too.”
Olivia hung up.
The date had been a colossal waste of time, but it would be less of a waste if she stayed for dessert. She’d weighed the pros and cons already: sacrifice an extra half hour for dessert and leave with greater satisfaction, or escape early with no satisfaction at all (beyond the delicious sushi she’d already consumed). The past hour and a half were a sunk cost; she couldn’t get it back.
She concluded that greater satisfaction outweighed thirty minutes of her time. Olivia had an obligation to herself to ensure her night wasn’t atotalwaste, and she’d been dying to try Ishikawa’s signature dessert since she read about it inMode de Vie’s Food Features section.
She exited the bathroom and tried not to grimace when she saw Wesley polishing off another sake at their table. According to his dating app profile, he was a real estate agent who liked vintage wine and travel—just like Olivia—and hewas.What it’d failed to mention—and what he’d announced ten minutes into their dinner—was that he also moonlighted as a stripper at The Cock Pit.
Yes, that was the name of Wesley’s nighttime employer, and yes, according to her chatty date, all the non-stage-performer employees had to dress up as flight attendants.
Olivia had nothing against strippers. She lovedMagic Mike XXL.A shirtless Channing Tatum, Joe Manganiello, and Matt Bomer all in the same movie? Yes, please. But there was a time and place for them, and tonight was neither the time nor place for Wesley to “show off his moves,” as he’d announced he would do half an hour ago.
To be fair, he was also unabashedly drunk. For a six-foot-two, 190-pound specimen, he couldn’t hold his alcoholat all.He had, however, managed to climb onto a speechless Olivia’s lap before she shoved him off and excused herself to go to the restroom.
“You’re back!” Wesley exclaimed, like she’d just returned from a trip to Italy and not the toilet. “How was the bathroom?”
“Fine.” She pasted on a smile and flagged down a server. “Can we order dessert, please? Two caramelized apple and kuromoji ice creams. Thank you.”
She wasn’t sharing, and if Wesley didn’t like her dessert choice, too bad.
Olivia had put up with an unwilling near-lap-dance; he could put up with ice cream.
“Dessert already? You didn’t finish your food yet.” Wesley stared at the remaining sushi on Olivia’s side of the table.
“I will by the time they bring it out.”
He laughed. “No way—” He stopped when Olivia dug into her remaining food with the gusto of a starving thirteen-year-old boy who’d just come home from sports practice. Translation: she demolished the rest of her meal in two minutes flat. “Whoa. You eat faster than I do. That’s hot.”
Wesley got out of his chair.