Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
Sadie
I left my phone on the table in case Lockhart wrote back to my last text—when I’d told him I trusted him with every part of my body—and I took a bite of the burrata that had just been delivered.
Bryn was in the midst of telling me about the new guy at work who had asked her out for a third time. He sounded fabulous from everything she’d told me about him, so when she’d mentioned him in the past, along with tonight, I encouraged her to go on the date. But she refused, adamant that office romances led to nothing but awkwardness when they didn’t work out—and they never worked out, according to her.
I was trying to prove that there were exceptions, and I was in the middle of a you must go out with him lecture when she lifted her finger in the air, halting me, and said, “We need to pause for Beck Weston.”
Beck Weston ?
“We need to do what?” I asked.
Her jaw dropped as she stared at her watch. “You know, Beck Weston, my pretend boyfriend, whose face is currently staring back at me. Sigh.” A sly smile came over her lips.
“Bryn, I’m lost. Why is his face staring back at you on your watch? Unless you saved it as the background pic … and in that case, did you really? And do you need an intervention?”
She grabbed her cell, shifting her focus there. “I wouldn’t put it past me to save his photo, but, no, a Celebrity Alert just came through about him.” Her smile grew as she read whatever was on the screen. “Ugh, I’m obsessed. That man is just so hot. No, hot isn’t even the right word. That’s for a normal level of hotness. His handsomeness is beyond that scale.” There was a fiery gaze in her eyes as she continued to stare at her screen.
I felt the same way about Lockhart, so I understood exactly what she was saying and how she felt.
When several seconds passed and she still hadn’t looked up, I said, “Beck is quite the heartthrob, huh?”
“No, he’s a vag-throb.”
I laughed.
“I was at his game the other night with the office crew—you know the group of people I’m talking about—and he was stretching on the ice during the warm-up.” She put both palms on the table and leaned toward me. “I’m not talking downward dog, Sadie. I’m talking full on, spread out, hands holding his weight, basically doing a push-up, while his legs swiveled in, like, a frog kick. It’s probably hard to envision, but basically, he was humping the ice. Literally grinding as if I were beneath him and he was giving it to me very slow and extra hard.”
I couldn’t stop laughing. “And you died, I’m assuming?”
“DIED.” She fanned her face with her fingers. “I don’t think he realized the audience he had when he was doing that move. Or if he did, that man was working it for us. I mean, I suppose he could have been opening his hips and stretching his groin and truly only focused on that, but there’s no way my brain couldn’t go there when I was watching that .” Her head shook. “There was one thing on my mind and one thing only. And that thing”—she half moaned, half whistled—“I will take it anytime Beck Weston wants to give it to me.”
“Now I’m really dying.” The laughter continued. “How was the game?”
“What game? The only thing I saw was him. I can’t tell you how he played—how his team or the other team did or even who won. I have absolutely no idea.”
I smiled. “That’s true love.”
“No, babe, that’s true lust.”
I held up my glass and drank to my best friend. “Let’s see what this Celebrity Alert is all about.”
Once I put the tumbler down, I picked up my phone and tapped the notification, which took me to their app. At the top was the headline, Beck Weston, Horned or Hungry? Beneath was a photo of Beck at a table in a dark corner of Horned, where he was dining with another man whose back was to the camera. The angle of the photo told me a patron or an employee of Horned had taken the shot.
I briefly skimmed the article that explained Beck, one of the owners and investors in The Weston Group, was seen at Horned with his brother, Hart. The question was then raised if they were there to enjoy a meal or, given the amount of food they’d ordered for a party of two, had come to see if it was a business they wanted to acquire for their brand.
Underneath the last paragraph of the article were several more photos of Beck. Ones of him as he was leaving his table, showing a better angle of his face. I didn’t know why I was flipping through them—I knew what he looked like, as Bryn’s obsession had started years ago—but something made me swipe past the first two shots of Beck, immediately stopping on the third. In this one, Beck was out of angle, and the focus was on his brother, Hart, a few paces behind with his head pointed down, hiding most of his face.
I knew all about The Weston Group, the family of five siblings who owned hundreds of restaurants around the world—two different lines of cuisine and dance clubs. But I only knew what Beck and Walker looked like; the others were more of a mystery, working behind the scenes of their business.
I was curious about Hart, and since there were more photos, I continued to flip, finding myself completely frozen on the sixth picture.
The one where his head was no longer pointed down.
The one where he was finally looking up.
The one where he was staring right at the camera.
What the fuck?
I spread the picture between my fingers, zooming in, enlarging the pixels to make sure what I was seeing was real.
“Oh my God,” fell out of my mouth.
“He’s the hottest thing alive—am I right?”
“No. Not that.”
The broadness in Hart’s shoulders. His stance. Posture. The way the first two buttons of his shirt were undone—how they were always undone whenever he wore button-downs.
The darkness of his gelled hair.
His scruffy cheeks.
Those piercing green eyes.
It was …
Lockhart.
Lockhart Wright.
Not Hart.
And not Hart Weston .
But … was it?
I didn’t understand.
I …
I scrolled back up, rereading bits of the article until I found what I was looking for.
Hart. That was the name that had been published—I was seeing that with my own eyes.
But why were they calling him that?
When his name was Lockhart?
Hart Weston, Hart Weston , I repeated in my head.
Not …
Lock hart .
Holy shit, they’d just shortened his name. Was that what he went by? He’d just given me the long version instead? Why hadn’t he corrected me? Or was it a misprint? And why hadn’t he mentioned he was a Weston? Why had he said his last name was Wright?
Wait.
Did he say his last name was Wright?
Or did he just call himself Mr. Right when I referenced Mr. Wrong and my brain spun that into Wright—as in his last name?
My mind was reeling, scanning every moment we’d been together and every conversation we’d had.
The W behind his desk—it had made sense when I saw it, but it really stood for Weston.
That meant the Eden I’d found on Instagram—was that even his sister? Or someone else?
He’d told me he was a foodie. He’d proven that to me over and over, and now I knew why.
He’d also said he wasn’t the strongest cook in his family—and that was because Walker held that title.
His car, his house, his mention of a private jet—all signs that he had a lot of money. But the Westons didn’t just have a lot of money. They were billionaires, owning the largest brand of restaurants in the world.
I’d never suspected he was that rich.
I’d never suspected he was part of a family I knew all about.
And I’d certainly never suspected that Lockhart, the man I was falling for, was Hart fucking Weston, a part of a family who had as much influence on the food scene as me.
A family who was in the process of building Toro LA—a restaurant I was supposed to review in the upcoming weeks …
I slowly glanced up from my phone, feeling everything inside me tighten—my stomach, chest, throat. “Bryn … I’m about to?—”
“These are for you,” our server suddenly said, appearing out of nowhere—or maybe I just hadn’t noticed him approach—and he set two drinks in front of us.
A wine for Bryn and an old-fashioned for me.
“We didn’t order another round, did we?” Bryn asked.
I couldn’t remember what we’d done.
Nor could I remember a single detail of this evening prior to the Celebrity Alert coming in.
“This round is courtesy of him,” the server said, pointing toward the bar.
I followed his finger, my stare moving across the dining room and into the bar, where it landed on Lockhart.
Or Hart.
I didn’t even know what to call him at this point.
But— oh God —he was here.
At the same restaurant.
And only a room away.
The air hitched in my lungs as he gave me that sexy, sensual grin that I knew too well. That normally caused every part of my body to tingle. But right now, there weren’t tingles. There was everything else—feelings, emotions, anxiety, all combining into a giant wave that was peaking.
“Mr. Hart Weston,” the server added, “the owner?—”
“Of Charred,” I whispered.
And as soon as the words left my mouth, Lockhart got up from his chair and began to walk over to our table.