Chapter 3
three
The pinch was as familiar as it was painful, Yaya’s grip so tight it was like she thought someone might steal me from her.
"Asteri mou," Yaya cooed, pink lipstick smeared on her teeth.
"I can't believe you're twenty-two, you are beautiful.
" Yaya was still stunning in her old age.
Her jewelry was always on point, but her lipstick never stayed in the lines.
She had been married to my grandfather for forty years before he passed away, and then she left Greece to live close to us.
"But when I was your age, I was married with four kids already. Do you still like men? Because I don't care about your preference as long as you’re married.”
"Yaya, I—" My voice came out muffled and strained as her fingers held firm. "Yes, Yaya, I like men," I managed to blurt out, the words barely escaping the confines of her affectionate torture. "I just haven't found the right one yet."
I knew the concern in her voice all too well. "Do you need me to set you up? What about that nice man who sells insurance?" Her eyebrows arched in anticipation, as if the mere suggestion could script my future. "He has a great wealthy family."
"Yaya, no," I began, the protest rising from my chest, but before I could finish, her hand shifted. She turned me sharply to the side, and with a pinch to my ass said, "You have such a tight bun, I don't see what the problem is."
Heat surged through my body, my face red with embarrassment. The parking lot suddenly felt like a fishbowl, and I couldn't shake the feeling that someone had just caught Yaya getting a snag of my behind. Mortified didn’t even begin to describe it.
"Caroline, we need to get in line now or we're never going to get a table." My sister Charlotte interrupted. Grateful for the diversion, I composed myself and followed her lead.
The line for the restaurant filled the waiting area. I fell into step beside my sister, the burn of Yaya's pinch lingering, an unwelcome reminder of the unfair expectations that my entire family had on my love life.
I trailed my sister to the hostess stand, the scent of garlic and oregano overwhelming us. The hostess—her attention shackled to a tablet—barely glanced up as she delivered the verdict: an hour wait.
"An hour?" The words slipped from my lips, shooting my sister a sidelong glare—who'd assured me all was arranged for my birthday dinner. "I thought you had it handled."
“They don’t take reservations!” she hissed, rolling her eyes.
"We’ll just wait," I murmured, accepting our fate.
Once dinner was over with, I could get to the real fun. I knew my friends had planned something epic tonight for my birthday—plans a world apart from cheek pinches and insurance salesmen.
My family and I stood in line. My parents chatted while my sister and her fiance exchanged stolen glances, their hands subtly entwined. My brother was on his phone, exuding detached interest. His wife, who also happened to be a gorgeous model, stood behind him.
We had been waiting to be seated for nearly fifteen minutes when the heavy wooden door swung open, and in walked Reese Carrington along with his family.
The moment Reese strutted inside the restaurant, all heads turned his way.
He was in a black dress shirt that hugged his athletic frame, his dark hair tousled and falling in messy perfection.
I caught sight of the cuff adjustment—a subtle but deliberate motion that drew attention to his newly ink-stained skin beneath.
It was just a glimpse, but it was enough to reveal the edge of a tattoo, which I’m sure was some act of rebellion.
He approached the hostess stand, all eyes still on the bad boy who played life like a game only he knew the rules to. The hostess herself seemed momentarily disoriented. It was almost comical the way her jaw fell open, like Harry Styles had just walked in.
And there I was, rolling my eyes at this disgusting spectacle.
The hostess, the one who had barely acknowledged us, now paid no attention to her tablet. Her demeanor shifted instantaneously from polite indifference to eager accommodation.
"Right this way, Mr. Carrington. We have your favorite table ready," she said, abandoning her post to lead them through the maze of tables.
Reese's little sister scurried after the hostess. His stepmother, a striking woman with an air of polished grace, and his father who was on the phone and wearing an expensive looking suit, also made their way to the table.
Reese and my brother locked in a handshake and patted each other on the back, tied together through the baseball world.
As Reese passed me, he caught my eye and flashed a roguish wink. I clenched my jaw, keeping my voice low.
"Entitled ass," I whispered, my gaze tracking Reese's confident stride. "How? They don't do reservations."
My brother raised an eyebrow at me but said nothing, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement at my barely contained irritation. The faint echo of Reese's laughter mingled with clinking of glasses, as they were seated swiftly. They didn’t bother another glance back at those still waiting.
"Ben Carrington just won a huge case," my mother's voice drifted from where she stood next to my dad. "I bet they're celebrating tonight. Heard he got his client eight million."
“Money and good looks, those are the kind of men we need to be having dinner with,” Yaya added.
We all knew about the Carrington family.
My fingers curled into my palm, nails pressing into my skin.
I forced a neutral expression in an attempt to hide the snarl fighting to surface.
He was the one person who aggravated me to no end.
Images stormed behind my eyes—flashbacks of every time Reese's perfect life had collided with mine.
With his annoyingly perfect looks, his unreal green eyes, and that arrogant tilt to his chin, as if he'd won life's lottery and knew it.
He always got to walk through life on a red carpet—because of wealth and connections.
No need to work hard and prove yourself when you're Reese Carrington.
An hour had trickled by in a slow, syrupy crawl before we were finally ushered to our table.
"Finally," my sister exhaled, as she smoothed out her dress.
Her eyes sparkled with the reflection of the candlelight when she leaned toward the waitress, conspiratorial.
"We're here for my sister’s birthday. She’s been dreaming about your manicotti for weeks—it's her favorite.
Well, that and peanut butter and jelly."
The waitress—in a black apron sporting more stains than I could count—flashed a sympathetic smile, her pen poised above her notepad. "I'm so sorry, hunny," she began, her words oozing regret, "that table over there ordered the very last one." She gestured across the room at Reese’s table.
His infamous green eyes were locked onto his plate, where manicotti remnants lay half eaten. A heavy sigh escaped me as I buried my face in the warmth of my palms. "I'll just take the lasagna," I murmured, my voice muffled by my hands.
"You got it, hunny." Her notepad scratched softly against the table as she scribbled the order down.
I stood abruptly, pushing back from the table with a scrape that felt too loud, too sudden. "I'm going to the bar to get a drink," I announced, and no one acknowledged me.
I found myself tracing circles on the counter top as I waited for my drink.
"Looking for the kids' menu? You won't find it at the bar," came a deep, smug voice from beside me.
I turned, already bracing for the inevitable. Reese leaned against the counter, green eyes flickering with mischief as they met mine.
"Funny," I quipped, rolling my eyes, "I was actually looking for the trash—oh, and there you are."
"If I remember correctly, you've always had trouble recognizing trash cans," he said, obviously referring to my discarded school lunches.
"That’s not true at all—I’m looking right at one."
His laugh, a rumble of amusement that somehow seemed both genuine and rehearsed, filled the space between us.
"Is there ever a day you don't run your mouth?
" he teased, a cocky smile playing on his lips.
He leaned in closer, his warm breath barely grazing my ear as he added, "If you need something to do with it, I can help you out with that. "
"Well," I began, "I would be stuffing my face with manicotti for my birthday, but you ruined that—like you do everything."
He cocked a brow, his grin pure mischief. "Birthday, huh? Let me guess… twenty-two?"
"Early eighties, actually," I shot back, my sarcasm so thick you could spread it on bread.
Reese’s smirk deepened, his voice a slow, teasing drawl. "That so? Gotta say, you wear eighty real well."
“I know,” I said, reaching past him, brushing the cool surface of the bar top with my fingertips before I picked up my drink. "And if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to my second favorite meal." The words slipped out, a bitter reminder of the manicotti-shaped hole in my birthday celebration.
"Happy birthday, Chaos," he said, casually sipping his drink, as I turned and walked away.
After dinner, our mostly empty plates were scattered across the table. Once the waitress picked up our empty plates, my mother was quick to let her know, "We will take the bill now, when you’re ready."
"Oh, hunny," she interrupted. Her hand fluttered up, waving off the concern before it could fully form. "It's already been taken care of."
The air around me seemed to still, the ambient noise of clinking glasses and murmured conversations fading to a distant hum. My mom searched the waitress’s face, trying to understand. "Taken care of?"
"Yes," she confirmed with a nod.
"For the whole family?" Dad asked, overhearing the conversation.
"Indeed," the waitress replied. "The Carringtons have taken care of everything. And," she added with a smile, "they've also spoken with the chef—a pan of manicotti made from scratch has been arranged for your family to take home. It'll be packaged up shortly."
Yaya leaned across the table. "I knew it," she whispered. "That lawyer is into me. He’s my type of man, too. Rich, thoughtful, and looks just like a Greek god—and I would know." She gave a knowing smile.
As my family continued to chat, their voices mingled with the soft notes of a piano somewhere in the background, but all I could do was stare dumbfounded at the now-empty table Reese and his family had occupied.
Why in the hell would Reese Carrington pay for my birthday meal?
And why would he convince the chef to make manicotti from scratch?
I nodded at the waitress, a silent acknowledgment that I heard her, though understanding eluded me. Reese had never been one for random acts of kindness—not without a motive, a play for power. We’d spent the past how many years hating each other? What game was he playing?