The Billionaire’s Bun In Her Oven - Ellie Rowe Page 0,11

would. I’m hulled up in the back of the restaurant by the bar, watching the gruesome scene before me. People are filing out like there’s an emergency. ‘Run, don’t walk from the rats!’

I have to sit here and watch Nadia grab the camera guy for her twenty minutes of fame.

“Oh, well, even though I know it’s my friend’s opening night, I just couldn’t stand to let these poor customers eat in a rat-infested place. I really thought better of her, but it’s clear she can’t be bothered about the well-being of her customers. Maybe she bit off more than she could chew. Poor girl…”

Paulie had to hold me back from pouncing on her after that statement. But he reminded me it would only make things worse if I slug her on camera. If the little coward had stuck around after the cameras stopped rolling, she might have gotten her just desserts.

I groan at the word. We were so close. Stephen had the dessert right there in front of him! If only he’d been able to take that first bite! But who could get away with such a despicable plan with the city health inspector right there!

It was all so strange, almost calculated. I’ve never felt so lost in my life. I didn’t get to celebrate with my crew, nor thank them for their amazing work. I didn’t get my drink with the hot jerk of a celebrity. I feel so vulnerable and powerless.

I’m just stuck here, by the bar, watching my life slowly implode on itself, and I didn’t even get to throw a punch. An older couple stops on their way out; not running, just shuffling along.

“Hey, Missy?” the old guy says. “I don’t care if the food is cooked by rats, you got a great restaurant here, best food in the East Village since that Marconi place closed down.”

I give him a smile and thank them for stopping by for my closing night.

They wave as they exit, paying my staff compliments as they go. That was sweet, but it does nothing to make me feel better. They’re not even the first couple to stop and say they don’t mind the rats. One even nudged me and said, “clearly all those people who ran out screaming aren’t from here.”

That definitely doesn’t make me feel better.

I’m not technically ‘from here’ either, and I’m careful not to claim to be so. Connecticut is a far cry from Manhattan, something Nadia always rubbed in my face. I rest my head in my hands for a moment, and force myself not to cry.

When I look up, I catch sight of Paulie chatting up one of the crew members. It’s the guy who’s always checking in with Stephen during the shoot. He’s cute, stoic and well-dressed. He must be his assistant or something. I catch Paulie’s eye and shake my head, waving him over.

He places a hand on the assistant’s chest and slowly drags it away as he crosses to me. Smooth, Paulie.

“What are you doing?” I ask him, exhausted.

“What? I’m helping you! That’s Stephen’s right hand man. His name’s Chase.” He says with delight, “So I’m chasing.”

“Thank you for going out of your way to do me such an honorable service, but I think I need a little more help than that,” I say dryly as I check to see if everyone’s scrambled out yet. I need a drink.

“Hey, cheer up. Maybe it’s not so bad? I mean, some people keep rats as pets!”

I’m about to push him off the barstool when my phone starts blowing up in my pocket. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Paulie warns, but I ignore him.

I should have listened. Half the NYC restaurant industry is sending me messages with links to breaking news articles. The customers aren’t even out the fucking door yet, and its breaking news already?!

The devil works hard, but, fuck, the NYC press works harder. I scan through the articles, apparently a glutton for punishment. Cynthia Easton’s hot new restaurant, Origin, had its opening night... Disaster... infested... ruin... catastrophe…

I groan and rest my head on the bar while Paulie offers a soothing back scratch. How is this happening? They even had pictures from inside the restaurant, namely, a photo of me bending over with my cleavage out as I tried to rescue a guest from falling off her chair.

There’s even a photo of mouse shit on the food! How is that possible?! We checked every plate that left! I go back to