Because I tried that and got a little too upset when he didn’t answer my phone call for weeks. But I don’t tell her that. She would read too much into it.
“Whatever,” I finally tell her wanting this conversation to end.
A wide grin spreads across her face. She’s already imagining things that will never happen. At most, Zane and I will have a nice dinner and conversation. It won’t lead to anything else. It’s just not me. It can't be.
My jaw dropswhen the car Zane sent for me – a fucking limo not an uber that I was expecting – stops in front of a very upscale dining establishment. What the hell is he thinking? It’s like he thinks flashing his money will win me brownie points with him. Does he really think I’m that kind of girl?
Not that I haven’t been dying to try this place out but spending thousands of dollars on a meal is not something I would ever do. Even if I had that money.
I walk into the restaurant where I am welcomed - or unwelcomed - by the maître d’ asking if I have a reservation as he looks over what I’m wearing. It’s actually completely appropriate for this kind of place, but I am certain that it’s not the style he’s turning his nose up at as much as the lack of designer labels hanging from it.
I don’t let his snobbish, upturned nose affect me. I’ve lived in this city most of my life. Once you cross into Manhattan, there are a few that think how much you make, what you wear, and the like are what makes you worth their time. Not all but a few.
“Zane Valen,” I tell him with my head high and voice clear.
He, again, looks me over. He obviously doesn’t believe that I’m here to meet Zane. I can’t say that I blame him. I’m sure there are lots of women who throw his name around if they know he’s going to be somewhere just so they can get close to him.
What I can blame him for is the condescension and arrogance that is literally visible in his sneer.He’s a fucking maître d’, for God’s sake.
I don’t say another word. I stand there staring the asshole down while simultaneously texting Zane.
Me: You had a car drop me off at this ostentatious absurdity then you better come tell the fucking maître d’ you’re waiting for me because he’s looking at me like I’m a cockroach
Zane: I’m so fucking sorry, Tori. I had a meeting here run late and couldn’t wait to see you. I’m on my way to the door now.
Me: You have two minutes or I’m leaving
Zane: DO NOT FUCKING LEAVE
I scowl at his ‘yelling’.
Me: DO NOT FUCKING YELL AT ME.
Zane: You know it’s adorable as hell you think you’re some kind of badass. Go ahead and leave, Tori. I will find you just like I found where you live.
My scowl turns in to full blown anger – and maybe a little bit of something else. I feel my face turning red with heat, but not from embarrassment but anger. The maître d’ is still looking at me like I’m gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe, and only making me angrier. I’m about to blow my top and blow this place when I see Zane walking toward me. His hair is even longer than last time as it waves and curls around his face. He has a bit of scruff to his face as usual that I’ve come to figure out isn’t there because he’s trying to look tough, but because he’s too lazy to shave. He’s wearing charcoal gray slacks and a matching jacket with a black shirt underneath with the top two buttons left undone. I manage to keep my tongue from lolling out of my mouth. It's crazy how people have always told me that I look good in everything I wear but there is no way I look Zane fucking Valen good. He looks like a fucking GQ ad right now.
But no matter how good he looks it doesn't make me forget the douche in front of me. That fucking crooked smirk he is always wearing is flashed at me when he realizes what I’m about to do.
I think that maybe he is about to stop my impending tirade, but then he just stops walking. His eyes peruse me as that lazy grin spreads wider then dart to the maître d’. He tilts his head toward the man with another smirk.
Is he daring me to go off on the man? Or is it permission?
“Miss,” the man begins again. I suppose he’s tired of our standoff. “I highly doubt Mr. Valen is waiting for you, and we can’t let someone impose on his privacy. I must ask you to leave.”
What a diplomatic way to say that I’m not good enough for him. Except I know that’s not true. First off, Zane was raised far better than I was, but it wouldn’t matter if he were the king of England. That does not make him better than me. Second, Zane is far too level-headed – I can’t believe I just said that about him – to think that what he can buy makes him something special.
“Why would you think that Zane isn’t waiting for me?” I ask casually. “Do you think my seventy-five-dollar dress isn’t good enough for him? Or maybe it’s the tattoos?Or is it the lack of thousands of dollars’ worth of jewelry?”
The man’s mouth turns into an ugly smirk. One that saysthatis exactly what he thinks. He even says so.
“I suppose it’s a good thing that Zane isn’t anything like you. Why would anyone want a glorified door greeter with a receding hairline and a beer gut who thinks his shit doesn’t stink because he works in a place that would cost most people a month’s salary just to eat here? This place probably costs more than you make in a couple of months, am I right? It doesn’t matter though because you think your little penguin suit makes you special. But I have news for you, you fucking asshole, I’m not lesser than anyone. In fact, I am probably one of the best people you will never have the pleasure to know because I came from less than meager circumstances and I am surviving and thriving just fine on my own. I am not some fucking gold digger going after the nearest pocketbook. Men like Zane Valen come afterme.”
“I’m afraid we don’t allow language like that in this establishment, miss. Or people that are of your – class.”
His beady eyes graze over me with disdain as Zane slaps a large hand to the man’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t think you would allow people of her class here,” he tells the man with a smirk making the man look completely smug – for about two seconds. “She has too much class for a place like this. This place isn’t good enough for someone like her.”
“Mr. Valen, sir, I didn’t realize you knew this woman,” the man sputters.
