Chapter 5
Five
LAN
Eight Dynasties on a Friday night was what I imagined a Shanghai subway during rush hour felt like—packed, chaotic, and full of people making questionable life choices.
With ninety-six covers running at full capacity, the air was thick with the smell of Peking duck, aged Moutai, and collective desperation.
Overhead, two thousand individually suspended amber and gold glass spheres caught the light from the main floor below, throwing the whole room in a warm, flickering gold that made everyone look like they belonged in a painting.
The gilded bamboo ceiling glowed. The guqin on the mezzanine played on.
The celadon porcelain in its backlit wall displays gleamed serenely at the chaos beneath it, entirely unbothered.
Thank God Bree and I weren’t working the bar tonight.
Nothing says “I hate my life choices” quite like dealing with handsy drunks who think their platinum credit cards give them grabbing privileges.
They especially loved targeting Bree and me—because apparently being young and pretty is an open invitation for harassment.
Though between Bree’s blond bombshell looks and what my brothers call my “illegal levels of cute,” we probably should’ve expected it.
The Eight Dynasties uniform didn’t help.
Eleanor had it designed by an actual New York fashion house—fitted black mandarin-collar jackets, sleek and severe, with a single gold emblem embroidered at the breast, paired with slim black trousers and black oxford shoes.
It looked expensive and intimidating on a hanger.
On Bree, it looked like a fashion week closing look.
On me, according to Bree, it looked like a public safety concern.
Her words. She’d said them on our first shift and hadn’t retracted them since.
Both of us had started our shift at three, preparing for the five o’clock opening, and hadn’t stopped moving since. Now, at eight, Bree collapsed into the chair behind me at the kitchen counter, looking like she’d just run a marathon in heels while carrying trays of braised abalone.
I turned to face her, leaning against the counter. “You look like death warmed over. What’s wrong?”
“I swear to God,” Bree groaned dramatically, fanning herself with a reservation slip, “if I don’t see at least one hot gay couple tonight, I’m going to die. Actually die, Lan. And then I’ll have to binge-read danmei until sunrise just to cleanse my palate.”
I couldn’t help but grin. “And then complain about your migraine tomorrow.”
“Worth it,” she declared, stretching her long legs out in front of her. “The things I sacrifice for art.”
Bree was the living embodiment of ‘don’t judge a book by its cover.
’ Looking at her, you’d see a blue-eyed blond goddess straight out of a fashion magazine.
What you wouldn’t guess was that she was the world’s most dedicated funu, more interested in shipping guys together than dating them herself.
Which was probably why she’d appointed herself as my personal romance coach in Operation: Confess to Jaxson—a mission that had been ongoing for approximately three years with zero progress.
“I’ll be fine.” She waved off my concern before suddenly freezing mid-motion, her eyes widening. “Oh. My. God.”
“What?” I glanced toward the entrance, expecting a scene or at least a dramatic spill. “Please tell me no one’s bleeding on Eleanor’s marble—”
“Better.” Her perfectly manicured hand gripped my arm with surprising strength. “Your brother just walked in.”
My heart did that stupid flutter thing it always did at the mention of Jaxson, like a teenager experiencing their first crush instead of a twenty-one-year-old with an inappropriate fixation on their stepbrother.
“Which one?” I asked, like I didn’t already know, like my body hadn’t already turned traitor and started heating up.
“The hot one.” She paused, tapping her glossed lips thoughtfully. “Well, the hottest one. Though honestly, your family’s gene pool is just unfair to the rest of humanity.”
“And?” I prompted, because her expression said there was definitely an ‘and.’
“And he’s with someone,” she added, her voice dropping to a disappointed whisper that carried more sympathy than I wanted to acknowledge.
I turned, because I’m apparently a masochist, and—fuck.
There was Jaxson, looking like he’d stepped out of a magazine spread in a dark suit, his black hair catching the restaurant’s amber lighting in a way that made him look like he’d been specifically designed to stand in this room and ruin people’s concentration.
And next to him, practically melded to his side, was a woman who screamed ‘trophy wife material’ from her perfect hair to her designer heels.
The sight sent an uncomfortable twist through my stomach, a sensation I had absolutely no right to feel. Jaxson wasn’t mine. Would never be mine. The sooner I accepted that, the sooner I could move on with my life and stop having inappropriate fantasies about my stepbrother.
“She’s in your section,” Bree said, sounding like she was announcing a terminal diagnosis.
“Of course she is.” Because the universe hated me. Specifically, it hated me on Friday nights when I was already running on fumes and looking like something the cat dragged in. “Want to trade?”
“Already on it, darling.” Bree stood, smoothing her jacket. “That’s what best friends are for. Also, I need to get a closer look at that disaster of a designer bag she’s carrying. Pretty sure it’s a knockoff.”
I watched as Bree glided toward their table with the poise of someone who definitely wasn’t on hour five of a double shift.
Jaxson’s smile when he saw her was warm and genuine—because of course it was, he probably came out of the womb charming people.
His companion’s smile, however, had all the warmth of a January morning in Alaska.
The woman was eyeing Bree like she was calculating how many years in prison she’d get for “accidentally” spilling hot soup on her.
When Bree returned, she performed a full-body shudder that would’ve made any soap opera actress proud. “That woman’s giving me serious ‘future ex-wife’ vibes. Did you see how she was looking at me? Like I was something she found stuck to the bottom of her Louboutins.”
I nodded, because I had eyes and basic survival instincts. “That bad, huh?”
“Worse. She has more red flags than a communist parade.” Bree leaned against the counter, keeping her voice low. “Do you know her?”
“Probably a client,” I said, aiming for casual and probably hitting somewhere around ‘obviously pining.’ Because that’s what I needed—another reminder that Jaxson spent his days showing beautiful, successful women around luxury penthouses.
Bree’s perfectly shaped eyebrows shot up. “Since when do clients look at their real estate agents like they’re planning the wedding registry? She’s practically got ‘Future Mrs. Sinclair’ written all over her designer dress.”
Something cold and unpleasant settled in my stomach. “Vibe that bad, huh?”
“Honey, she’s practically radiating ‘he’s mine’ energy. It’s like a force field of territorial pheromones and Chanel No. 5.” Bree squeezed my arm sympathetically. “But don’t worry, Jaxson doesn’t seem into her that way. He has that client smile on—you know, the one that doesn’t reach his eyes.”
I tried to laugh it off, ignoring the ridiculous relief her words brought. “Maybe she’s just threatened by you. I mean, look at you—you’re basically what happens when a model decides to moonlight as a server for fun.”
Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “Don’t you dare try to deflect with compliments, Lan Ji. Not when there’s a she-wolf in designer clothing trying to sink her perfectly whitened teeth into your man.”
“He’s not my—”
“Three years!” She jabbed a finger at me, nearly taking out my eye. “Three years I’ve been watching this slow-motion train wreck of pining and meaningful glances. I swear, if you don’t confess soon, I’m going to write your love story myself and sell it as a novel.”
“Ouch! Ouch!” I yelped as she pinched my cheeks, her usual method of expressing frustration with my romantic incompetence. For someone so delicate-looking, she had a grip like a vise.
“Bree!” Terrence called from the kitchen, amusement clear in his voice. “What’s our favorite disaster done now?”
“Being a disaster,” Bree replied, finally releasing my poor face. “As usual.”
I rubbed my cheeks, painfully aware that Jaxson was watching our little scene from across the restaurant. Because apparently, the universe hadn’t humiliated me enough tonight. “I was not.”
“You were absolutely being a disaster,” she insisted, flicking my forehead for good measure. “A beautiful, lovable disaster who needs to get his act together before someone else snatches up that dark-haired Adonis of a stepbrother.”
Warren’s timely announcement of “Table twenty ready!” saved me from another round of cheek abuse.
We loaded up our arms with plates, a skill that should definitely count as an Olympic sport, and headed back out into the chaos.
If I happened to take the long way around to avoid a certain table by the silk screen, well, that was just efficient route planning, wasn’t it?
Quarter to ten found me clearing tables and questioning my life choices when Jaxson materialized out of nowhere like some stupidly attractive ninja.
I nearly sent both myself and an armful of crystal crashing to the floor—which would’ve been a fantastic addition to my evening, and Eleanor’s expression would have been the last thing I ever saw—but his arms caught me before gravity could finish what it started.
My face ended up pressed against his chest, which was both heavenly and torture, because now his scent was all I could smell and my brain was rapidly short-circuiting.