Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
EMIL
I wasn’t quite ready to burn the world down, but violence was possibly on the table.
John and his family had insisted on setting up this meeting for reasons I didn’t fucking know.
The shares had already been purchased. They were bought at a discount because his company was in trouble, so the idea that this dinner would somehow wring more funds out of me was ridiculous.
It was a waste of time. I wasn’t paying them shit.
John had the server add another chair to the table.
When I asked who it was for, he wouldn’t answer.
He only smirked and sat back in his chair like the smug little piece of shit he was.
If this asshole ruined Quill, one of my favorite restaurants, I was going to fantasize about doing unspeakable things with his body and burying it under the office.
Unfortunately, it was only a fantasy because I wasn’t meant for jail.
“Oh, he finally arrived,” John sneered, looking past my shoulder.
I turned, and approaching the table, nervous and fidgety, was Anders.
He wore a business suit that didn’t quite fit his shoulders, but it was clear he had tried hard to dress appropriately for the venue.
His hair was neatly braided and pulled back in a bun.
His eyes, though, were clouded over, and sadness seemed to drip from him.
“Anders, have a seat. It is great to see you,” I said and offered my hand. He gave me a tentative smile and took it. His hand was warm and firm with the faintest hint of sweat. His aftershave wafted across the table. Musky with a hint of flowers, it was lighter than my own, but I liked the scent.
“Thank you,” he said quietly and slipped into the empty chair.
“It would have been nice if you’d shown up on time,” John said with an ugly grimace. Anders glanced down at his watch. Confusion spread across his face. “You said seven-thirty, and it’s seven twenty-five.”
“Incompetence is a theme for you, Anders. I said seven. You’re twenty-five minutes late.”
Anders recoiled like he had been slapped. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the twisted amusement on John’s face. I’d bet money that fucker told Anders the wrong time so he’d have something to bitch about. Christ, I’d be glad to be rid of him and his family.
“Your menu, sir,” the server murmured.
Anders visibly paled when he opened it. Quill was nice, and definitely had pricy options on the menu, but I’d have thought John had brought Anders here before.
Anders’s eyes darted across the menu at a rapid pace.
It was impossible not to notice the rapid rise and fall of his chest. If it got any worse, he’d start hyperventilating on the spot.
Every part of me wanted to reach across the table and reassure him, and every fiber also knew how inappropriate that would be.
Rather than dwell more on Anders in ways that needed to be avoided, I studied John and his parents.
They were cut from the same grubby cloth, and their expensive clothes and cloying colognes couldn’t hide the grift.
Their answers were polished, but their accounting practices were in shambles.
Every day, it became clearer that the documents they presented in the original loan had been doctored.
As far as I could tell, they were blissfully unaware that we were researching every thread we unraveled.
“Are you ready to order?” the freshly materialized server asked.
John and his parents ordered the most expensive things on the menu because, of course, they did. Clearly, they thought I was picking up the tab because there was no damn way they’d pay for tomahawk steaks and Alaskan king crab if they thought it was coming from their pocket.
“And for you, sir?”
John loudly cleared his throat before Anders could answer. I caught the glower John shot at Anders along with a subtle shake of his head.
“No, thank you. I’ll stick with water.”
“Are you sure? The special tonight is chicken marsala with foraged mushrooms, and I know that’s your favorite. I can ask the chef to do extra sauce. I know you like it.”
Anders looked like he wanted to sink into the floor, and John was marooned with barely contained rage.
It was beyond me how Anders could be so well known here that the waiter knew his preferences, but he clearly blanched at the prices.
If Anders managed to create a life away from his shitty boyfriend, I was fucking here for it.
“Anders said he’s not eating,” John interjected through clenched teeth. “He’s here to work. Let’s finish ordering so he can do his job and leave. I’m sure he has things to do this evening.” The glee John took in his pronouncement made my skin crawl.
“John, that’s a wonderful suggestion,” his mother simpered. She cast a smirk at Anders and his father gave one in return. These power-play idiots were out of their goddamn minds.
“Anders, I can’t let a guest not eat at a dinner I’m hosting. What would you like?” I kept my voice as neutral and, quite frankly, as unintimidating as possible.
“He’s working, not a guest,” John said through gritted teeth. It was an interesting combination of whining and pure pissed-off rage. “And now he’s creating a delay.”
“Anders, order your dinner, please. John, keep your mouth shut unless I speak to you.” I sat back and let the chips fall where they may. The dinner meeting was a courtesy at their request, which had been mainly granted to minimize the later whining about terms I knew I’d ignore.
“Anders has done nothing but drag my son down. I’m so glad he’s no longer in our lives,” John’s mother added to twist the knife.
Anders bowed his head and hunched his shoulders at her cruel announcement.
Done. I was fucking done.
“Luckily, you won’t have to tolerate it much longer.”
“Wonderful.” Her mouth twisted into some facsimile of a smile.
I turned to the server, who was doing a remarkable job of pretending he wasn’t listening to the entire conversation while also scowling in the family’s direction.
“Please escort them to their coats. These three are leaving,” I said with a careless wave across the table.
I almost wished I could hear how he’d relay it to the kitchen staff.
“When they’re gone, please come back so we can order properly. ”
“Yes, immediately.” The server marched around to pull out John’s mother’s chair. He waited expectantly behind her.
“Are you fucking kidding?” John asked with disbelief.
“No, I’m not. Leave. Now.” My voice was stern. Anders flinched but made no move to join them. Perfect.
My questions were endless.
“Let’s start this over.” Anders glanced around the table before giving a slight nod of agreement. “Since you’ve obviously been here before, besides the chicken marsala, is there anything else you recommend?”
I was dying to know how the staff knew Anders but not John.
“I’m not a big steak eater, but the ribeye is delicious. And the salmon, of course.” Anders’s voice was hesitant, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to speak above a whisper, but the smoothness of it was like a river running over rocks.
“Ribeye it is.”
The server set a loaf of sourdough on the table.
On reflex, Anders reached across, cut a slice, buttered it, and set it on my plate.
Then he put his hands back in his lap rather than cut his own.
There was an air of patience about him I didn’t understand, but I instinctively knew he was waiting for me to do something, though I wasn’t sure what.
I took a bite of the bread, and only then did he relax enough to cut a slice for himself. His hands trembled a little, effort behind every movement, trying to appear calm instead of the bundle of nerves he clearly was.
“Gentlemen, I’m sorry for the delay. Can I get you another drink?” the server asked.
“Go ahead,” I urged Anders.
He glanced at the empty seat where John had been sitting, as if a ghost were about to tell him what he was allowed to do. His mouth opened and closed twice. It was painful to watch a man I already knew was kind and generous look so unsure of himself.
If that had been John in public, I didn’t want to imagine him in private. If he’d displayed this level of contempt out in the open, what the fuck was he saying behind closed doors?
“May I have a mocktail, please?” Anders asked. He flicked a look at me as if he expected to be stopped.
“No problem. The bartender made a fantastic one earlier with blood orange. Want to try that?”
Again, Anders glanced at the empty seat, waiting for a confirmation that would never come.
“Yes, thank you.” His voice wobbled, and he braced as if preparing for a blow. He glanced at me and let out a breath, almost silent. The tension coming off him gutted me.
“Can we go ahead and put in our order now as well?” I asked, trying to direct Anders away from whatever internal minefield he was navigating.
“Of course. What can I get you?” the server asked, looking at Anders first. Anders went rigid at the renewed attention. Some instinct in me kicked in—intervening felt necessary.
“I’ll have the ribeye, medium rare, and my friend will have the chicken marsala. If the kitchen can do extra sauce for him, that would be great. Thank you.”
Anders eased again the moment the pressure was off him.
When the bread on my plate was gone, Anders cut another slice on autopilot, buttered it, and placed it in front of me. Satisfaction softened his face when I took a bite. Only then did he eat his own.
I had no idea what I was looking at, but the breadcrumbs Anders kept dropping were clues to a bigger puzzle. The waiting, the watching, the bracing—something was happening here I didn’t yet understand.
While we waited for dinner, I asked him questions about the company and internal organization.
For someone pigeonholed into one role, Anders had a sharp grasp of every position.
He knew who was leaving and why, where they were going, what their jobs actually entailed, and what each person excelled at.
He didn’t volunteer information, but he answered whatever I asked.
As interesting as the company intel was, it wasn’t the question I really wanted to ask.
“Anders, I have a question, but you’re fully free to tell me to mind my own business. Deal?”
“Okay…maybe?”
The hesitation shouldn’t have been cute, but it was. If that made me a bad person, I’d live with it.
“How do the servers know you but not John?”
His first genuine smile hit me like a sucker punch. It was pure joy.
“My friend Rory? From the office lunch?”
I nodded, and he continued, “His boyfriend is friends with Barrett, who owns this place. Barrett’s boyfriend is Owen. We’re all friends with a few others. They call us ‘the boys and Anders.’”
Anders looked a little stricken, like he’d said too much, but I didn’t want him to stop.
“Do they work for my company too? I thought Rory was just visiting, but I don’t know everyone yet.”
“He was visiting. He’s a writer. We’ve been best friends since second grade.
Owen designed Quill. Nico works for Rory’s boyfriend as a project manager at his architecture firm.
His boyfriend is Levi, who used to be Owen’s landlord.
And Reed—the ER doctor you met—his boyfriend is Jakob, who works in the hospital lab.
And the newest addition is Casey, who works for Barrett at a different restaurant, but I think he’s going to quit and run the food truck at his boyfriend’s bar. ”
“And John isn’t part of the group?”
“No. He hates them, but I refused to give Rory up. Or any of them.”
For the first time, Anders sounded furious and protective. Soft-spoken Anders became someone else entirely when talking about the boys. Loyalty radiated off him.
John had tried to isolate him. It was the one thing Anders had refused to bend on.
“Gentlemen, can I get you anything else?” the server asked, placing our dishes in front of us. Anders looked to me instead of the server and shook his head.
“We’re fine, thank you.”
He made no move to eat. Instead, he waited, hands in his lap, eyes down. It looked conditioned. But he wasn’t as tightly wound anymore. Something tonight had eased him. His hands still trembled, but his voice had steadied.
For the rest of dinner, I watched him. He deferred to me at every turn, but he also served me.
He prepped my bread, adjusted my glass, and when I spilled a little water, he quietly dabbed it up.
The more he did, the more the tension eased out of his shoulders.
I didn’t know what it meant, but I wasn’t interfering.
With the dishes cleared and stacked—earning him a grateful smile from the server—I couldn’t delay the evening any longer. He’d declined dessert, and I had no more excuses to keep him here.
His hands still shook when he picked up his water glass.
“Anders, did you drive here tonight?”
“Yes?”
He always turned answers into questions when he was unsure, and I had no idea why I was cataloging his quirks after one dinner.
“You’re still shaky. I’m driving you home.”
“I’m all right. It’s not very far.”
“Fine isn’t the same as safe. I’m driving.”
I expected pushback, but his shoulders eased again.
I signaled for the server. Anders froze when I told him to put his wallet away. In what universe was this man—set up to fail tonight, working for me—paying for his own dinner?
“Tonight, I’m at my mom’s place. Are you sure it’s not too much trouble? It’s five, maybe ten minutes farther.”
“It’s absolutely my pleasure.”
And to my surprise, I meant it.