James grinned. “Don’t worry, I locked the original reservation under your name. The one he made got billed as a walk-in. No discounts.”
I didn’t reply, just smiled into my tiramisu.
After dinner, I drove my parents home. My dad insisted on thanking me three times. He hugged me longer than usual. I think he knew, on some level, what had happened—even if I didn’t say it.
When I got home, Ryan was already there. Sitting in the dark.
“You embarrassed me,” he said, as I walked in.
“No,” I said, slipping off my heels. “You embarrassed yourself.”
He stood up, angry. “You made me look like a fool in front of my family.”
“You stole a reservation I made for my father.”
“It was just dinner.”
“No,” I said. “It was disrespect. And it wasn’t the first time.”
He scoffed. “So what now? You think you’re the big shot because your brother owns a restaurant?”
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