It was loud in the restaurant. The good kind of loud, when everything is working on all cylinders. Elliott clinked his glass of champagne with a knife. He wanted to make a speech.

“Welcome to Blank Graemmer. For those of you who hated grammar as much I did, the word should be evident. Thank you all for coming. If you will bear with me a moment, I would like to say a few words. This restaurant is a love letter for two people. A love letter to my father, who will always be the most excellent chef I know. Everything you eat tonight will be influenced by him. But this restaurant wasn’t solely influenced by my father. It is also a love letter to my partner in crime, the woman who has been here day in and day out, sharing my hopes and dreams and … her love of vintage shopping with you. She has shared her enthusiasm and spirit and, last but never least, her unique and talented vision. My dearest friend and soul mate, Bailey Edgeworth. Cheers, everyone, and let me know if we can do anything to make your dining experience better.” He leaned over with his glass and toasted me. I was somewhat taken aback by the public display of affection but touched that he expressed himself so eloquently. We parted so that we could mix and mingle with our guests. I headed for the bar to catch up with Griffin.

He handed me a sidecar. It tasted different from the week before. “Yummy. The bartender did something different,” I said.

“Yes. He let me mix it for you. I have totally gone new-school on my sidecars. I’ve always made yours with bourbon, opting out of the usual brandy.” I just smiled at him and clinked his glass of Saratoga water with mine. “To you, Bae.”

I gulped the first one down, and the second one went down with equal ease.

“Go easy. Why are you acting so nervous? This place is amazing. Don’t you want to eat something?”

Eat? My insides resembled the contents of the blender. Shaken. Stirred. In disarray.

I felt the tiniest bit of sweat creep into the palm of my hand and onto the back of my neck. My past and present were colliding. I was still so angry at Elliott, but I wanted Griffin to approve of him. I accepted another drink from the bartender, and Griffin took it away and asked for a glass of sparkling water. Designing restaurants was my gift; juggling two men in the same room clearly was not. I couldn’t say who was winning the tug-of-war. Certainly not my heart. It felt like the rope was squarely around my neck, constricting airflow into my lungs. Feeling nauseous and hyperventilating, I willed myself to settle down. For the next hour, Griffin received and exchanged plates of food. Watching him eat soothed my nerves. “That boy knows what he’s doing in the kitchen. I’ll give him that.”