Page 26 of Forever Fighting
“Now you’re not fighting fair. I’m a woman on the edge.”
He shifts and drops his arm around my shoulder. “Maybe you just need to hit things. Punching bags with Adam’s face affixed to them. I can get you that in under an hour. I know some people.”
A laugh escapes before I can stop it, half-amused, half-broken. “I bet you do.” Then I sit up straighter. “Wait, are you doing a fight while we’re here?”
He shakes his head. “No. I’m very careful where I do my fights and the Vegas underground scene is a different level. This is all work, with some fun mixed in. I’m glad you’re here. Otherwise, it would have been all work and no fun.”
He’s right. We’re here to have fun, which isn’t something he does all that often and rarely for himself. I’m here to see my best friend’s new restaurant and celebrate him, and not think about the fact that my life has fallen apart a bit and my heart has been used like a trampoline.
“Maybe it’s that I feel like a cliché.”
His brows furrow. “How so?”
“The jilted bride runs off to Vegas with the hot, tattooed bad boy.”
A smile splits his lips. “Could be worse clichés. Imagine if I weren’t hot. And it’s not like you’re doing anything all that crazy or extravagant. We didn’t bet ten grand on one hand of roulette, and we didn’t have Elvis race you down the aisle to me. It’s all good and safe. You’re on vacation.”
I snort a laugh. “True. I haven’t had randomget over my exsex. I didn’t cut or dye my hair or even get an ill-advised tattoo.”
“Ah, but once again, the day is young.” He stands andextends his hand to me. “I need to be at the restaurant soon. Do you want to shower or eat anything before we go do that?”
“I get to go with you?”
He peers at me. “Only if you want to, kid. If not, you can go shopping or to the pool or even hang out here.”
“No. I want to.” I do a little jump. “I want to see your greatness. Let’s go.”
Decision occupies a prime location in the hotel, overlooking fountains and a beautiful garden. Its entrance is marked by a sleek sign that’s all hard lines and tarnished metal. The space is still closed to the public, but staff move purposefully inside, preparing for tomorrow’s soft opening.
Roman places his hand on my back as we enter, and I can feel the touch of nerves and excitement in him. The interior unfolds before us with black chairs and wood floors, crimson wallpaper on accent walls, matching linens, roses on the tables, and ambient vintage lighting with burnished yellow Edison bulbs creates a cool, hip, old-world yet modern, intimate space within the larger room.
The design is distinctly Roman.
Nothing flashy, nothing unnecessary, but every detail considered and perfect and badass. It’s a total vibe. “I love it.”
He turns to me. “You do?”
I nod vigorously. “Yes. It’s incredible.”
Before he can reply, a tall woman in a tailored suit approaches with a smile that brightens when she recognizes Roman. “Chef, it’s good to see you.” She gives him a warm handshake.
“Lydia, this is Braelyn Albright,” Roman introduces. “Brae, this is Lydia Chen, our restaurant manager and the reason I can sleep at night.”
Lydia extends a hand, her grip firm. “Oh, Braelyn. I’ve heard so much about you. Roman mentioned you so many times, I feel as though I already know you.”
Shocked by this, I raise an eyebrow at Roman, who suddenly becomes very interested in adjusting his sleeve. I return my attention to her. “All good things, I hope?”
“The best,” Lydia assures me. “Though he failed to mention you’d be joining us for the opening. I’ll make sure we add your name to the VIP list.”
“I’m just here for moral support,” I say, taking in the restaurant some more. “And to see what all the fuss is about,” I tease, nudging him with my elbow in the side.
“Well, we welcome the feedback,” she replies with a conspiratorial smile. “Leaf is in the kitchen if you want to check in. They’re plating some test dishes now.”
Roman nods, and I follow him through the restaurant toward the kitchen. As we walk, staff members acknowledge him with a mix of respect and nervousness that I find both amusing and impressive. My best friend, the intimidating culinary genius. It’s still sometimes hard to reconcile this Roman with the one who reads classics and lets me beat him at Scrabble.
The kitchen is a marvel of stainless steel and precision, larger than the one at Roundhouse but with the same energy. A man with salt-and-pepper hair looks up from a plate he’s examining, and his face breaks into a relieved smile.
“Chef,” he says, straightening. “Just in time.”
