That pisses me off. Whether or not she’s right that I would never in a million years be able to afford even an appetizer here—she’s one hundred percent right, for the record—is not the point. “Are you saying I don’t belong here?”
“If you don’t have a restaurant…” she starts. My jaw nearly drops at the rudeness, and even she must see that that’s a little too much, because she changes course mid-sentence and says instead, “Are you here with somebody, miss? Or are you here alone? Is there somebody I can have my assistant call?”
Her assistant. How fancy is this place that the hostess has a fricking assistant?
“You can have your assistant—“
“Dani?” Angelo steps up beside her, looking handsome as Lucifer himself in a tight-fitting steel suit with a matching tie, his hair slicked back, his da
