Filthy Rich Neighbors (Filthy Rich Harems #7)

Chapter 1

Claire

The man sitting across from me swirls his wine glass again, holding it up to the light like he's examining the Mona Lisa instead of a glass of Cabernet.

I've been watching him do this for the past ten minutes while he lectures me about tannins and proper aeration techniques, and I'm starting to wonder if it's possible to die from secondhand pretentiousness.

"You see," Joey says, his voice dripping with condescension, "most people don't understand that wine is a living thing. It needs to breathe, to express itself fully before it’s consumed."

I take a sip of my own glass and resist the urge to point out that the wine is technically dead, considering the grapes were crushed months ago. But I've already learned that contradicting Joey leads to longer lectures, and we're only on the appetizers.

"That's fascinating," I manage, pushing a piece of burrata around my plate. The mozzarella is excellent, creamy and fresh, but my appetite disappeared somewhere around his third story about his 'essential' wine tour through Bordeaux.

Joey flags down our server—again—and my stomach clenches. He's already sent back the bread for being 'too dense' and complained about the temperature of the butter.

"This wine," he announces to the poor server, loud enough for half the restaurant to hear, "is corked."

The server, a young woman with infinite patience in her eyes, maintains her professional smile. "I'm so sorry, sir. Would you like me to bring you another bottle?"

"Obviously." Joey doesn't even look at her, just waves his hand dismissively. "And make sure it's properly stored this time. I shouldn't have to educate your sommelier on basic wine service."

Heat creeps up my neck. The wine isn't corked—I might not be a wine expert, but I know that much. He's just enjoying the power trip. The server's jaw tightens almost immediately before she takes the bottle away.

"You know," I say carefully, "the wine seemed fine to me."

Joey's eyes narrow. "Well, that's why I'm here to teach you, isn't it? Your online profile said you were interested in learning about wine."

My profile said I enjoyed wine, not that I needed a patronizing lecturer. But pointing that out would only make the next hour even more unbearable. I've already decided this is our first and last date—I just need to survive dinner.

"Speaking of which," Joey continues, pulling out his phone, "let me show you photos from my collection. I have a temperature-controlled cellar in my condo—cost me thirty thousand to install, but it's worth it for proper storage."

He launches into a slideshow of wine bottles while I mentally calculate how much longer this torture will last. The main courses haven't even arrived yet. I glance around the restaurant, plotting potential escape routes, when my eyes land on three men at a corner table.

They're all watching our table with varying expressions of amusement. The one facing me directly—silver-haired with the kind of bone structure that belongs on magazine covers—catches my eye and raises his eyebrow slightly. I realize he's been witness to Joey's entire performance.

Heat floods my cheeks as I quickly look away, but not before noticing his companions.

A blonde man with silver streaks who has the build of someone who takes fitness seriously.

And the other one, dark-haired with silver going throughout and an almost scholarly air, appears to be taking notes on a napkin. About what, I can't imagine.

"Are you even listening?" Joey's sharp voice snaps my attention back.

"Of course. Your 1982 Chateau Margaux."

"1985," he corrects with a huff. "Honestly, Claire, if you're not going to pay attention—"

"I need to use the ladies' room." I stand before he can launch into another lecture, grabbing my purse.

"Don't be long. The main course should arrive soon, and I'll need to ensure they've cooked my steak properly as soon as it arrives."

I escape toward the restrooms, but once I'm out of his sight, I pull out my phone instead. My best friend Sage answers on the second ring.

"How's the date with the wine guy?" she asks. She's bartending tonight, and I can hear music and chatter in the background.

"I'm considering faking a medical emergency," I whisper. "He's been pretentious as all fuck, not to mention he’s shown me photos of wine bottles like they're his children."

"Yikes. Just leave?"

"I can't just walk out." Though the thought is tempting.

"Sure you can. Go to the bathroom and never come back. Classic move."

I'm actually considering it when I hear Joey's voice rising from the dining room. "This is completely unacceptable! I specifically said medium-rare plus!"

"I have to go," I tell Sage. "He's terrorizing the staff again."

"Good luck. If you need an escape, I'm at Revival until two."

I hurry back to find Joey standing at our table, pointing at his steak while our server maintains her professionally neutral expression.

"This," he says loudly, "is medium. Anyone with eyes can see it's overcooked."

The steak looks perfect to me—pink in the center with a beautiful sear. Several nearby tables are now watching the show.

"We'll have the kitchen prepare you a new one right away," the server says.

"Forget it. The evening is ruined." Joey throws his napkin on the table. "The wine was corked, the service is abysmal, and now this. We're leaving."

"But—" I start, looking at my barely touched salmon.

"Come on, Claire. I know a better place." He's already heading for the door.

I grab my purse and follow, mortified by the scene. But he doesn't stop at the host stand to pay. He just walks straight out.

"Joey," I call after him on the sidewalk. "The bill?"

"They can comp it after that disaster." He's already pulling out his phone to order an Uber. "Anyway, I just remembered I have an early meeting tomorrow. Rain check on the other place."

"But—we need to pay—"

"Don't be naive. Restaurants expect to comp meals when they screw up this badly." His Uber pulls up with suspicious speed—the guy must have been right around the corner. "You can get home okay, right?"

Before I can answer, he's in the car and gone, leaving me standing on the sidewalk in my nicest dress and heels, processing what just happened.

I can't just leave without paying. That's theft. And those poor servers don't deserve to have the meal come out of their tips because Joey is an entitled ass.

I walk back into the restaurant, my face burning. The hostess gives me a sympathetic look as I approach.

"I'm so sorry about... that," I say quietly. "I'd like to pay for our meal."

"Of course. One moment." She disappears briefly, returning with the check.

Five hundred and twelve dollars. My stomach drops. Joey ordered appetizers, expensive entrees, and that bottle of wine he claimed was corked. I have no idea how much the wine cost because he wouldn’t let me even look at the wine menu. Apparently, it was several hundred dollars. Fuck me…

I pull out my credit card with shaking hands, praying it doesn't get declined.

"Excuse me."

I turn to find the silver-haired man from the corner table standing beside me. Up close, he's even more striking—tall and broad-shouldered, with intelligent gray eyes that seem to see right through me.

"I apologize for intruding," he says, his voice deep and cultured, "but my colleagues and I couldn't help but notice your... situation. That was quite a performance your companion gave."

"He's not my—we just—it was a first date. A really bad first date," I stammer, humiliated that this stranger witnessed everything.

"In that case, I hope it's also your last." His lips quirk slightly. "No one should treat restaurant staff that way. Or the person they’re on a date with."

"I'm handling it," I say, lifting my chin despite my embarrassment.

"I'm sure you are. However..." He reaches past me and hands the hostess a black American Express card. "Please put her bill on my card."

"No!" The word comes out louder than intended. "I mean, thank you, but I can't let you do that."

"It's already done." He signs the receipt the hostess quickly produces. "Consider it an apology on behalf of men everywhere for that display of poor behavior."

"I don't even know you."

"My name is Stuart. Stuart Miller." He extends his hand, and when I shake it, his grip is firm and warm. "And you're Claire?"

I nod, momentarily unable to speak. He heard Joey saying my name, of course.

"My friends and I were about to head to a wine bar downtown. Revival, I believe it's called?" He gestures to his companions, who are now standing by the door. "You're welcome to join us. No lectures about tannins, I promise."

Revival. Where Sage works. The coincidence feels like a sign.

"That's very kind, but—"

"At least let us buy you a drink to make up for your evening." His smile transforms his face from handsome to devastating. "Besides, you didn't even get to touch your dinner. You must be hungry."

My stomach chooses that moment to growl audibly. I barely ate any of the appetizers since Joey ordered two things I absolutely despise—foie gras and caviar.

"Revival has excellent small plates," the blonde man calls over. "And the bartender makes a mean Manhattan."

I look between them—three well-dressed men who could probably buy this entire restaurant without blinking. Every self-preservation instinct says I should politely decline and go home. But I'm hungry, angry about my ruined evening, and honestly? Intrigued.

"One drink," I give in.

Stuart's smile widens. "Excellent. I'll drive us over, if that's acceptable. Or you can meet us there if you prefer."

"I'll meet you there." No way am I getting in a car with three strange men, no matter how attractive and seemingly respectable they are.

"Smart woman." He hands me a business card. "In case you change your mind. Otherwise, we'll see you there in fifteen minutes?"

I nod, and they leave. I look down at the card: Stuart Miller, MD. Chief of Neurosurgery, Presbyterian Hospital.