“That’s actually not true,” Danial said. “But there are other fish species that are found in the Pacific. Would you like to know them?”

“I’m sorry,” Alex pushed back, “did you Google ‘fish distribution’ this morning or something?”

“Probably,” Sophie snorted.

Danial looked over at her, then shook his head. “No, I don’t need to brush up on this kind of thing. I stay ready with fish facts, so I never have to get ready with fish facts.” He dragged a fry through a dollop of ketchup on his plate, smiling in Alex’s direction.

“I know you’re making this up to get under my skin, and I’m not even going to give you the satisfaction.”

“You wish that were true.” He sipped his water. “Would you also like to know if monkfish is halal or kosher?”

“I’m not dignifying that with a response.” She stabbed another forkful of fish defiantly.

“I kind of want to know,” Guy said, egging on the debate—mostly to please Paul. He raked a few fingers through his shiny blond hair, trying to look casual.

“Don’t you dare answer that,” Alex warned, watching Danial’s impish smile grow from across the table.

“Monkfish is halal—”

“I can’t believe this.”

“But not kosher.”

“I hate you.”

“I know you do, but that’s actually not even the argument. Are monkfish found in the Pacific Ocean? You seemed so sure—are you still ready to bet on that?”

Alex reached down toward her tote bag, and Danial immediately broke into a full-on grin.

“Reaching for Google already? I’m disappointed. Have some confidence in your arguments, Alex.” He popped a cherry tomato in his mouth.

Alex froze mid-reach. “I was reaching for my lip balm,” she lied.

They paused, looking at each other. Her eyes felt almost oversaturated by his beauty, the blue linen shirt unbuttoned slightly down his chest, the wild dark hair framing his angular face, the black-strapped leather watch he inherited from his grandfather ticking on his wrist. She felt her chest rise and fall with this game they played, this constant testing and prodding. As she leaned forward, hand still hovering near her bag on the floor, she felt his eyes move downward for a microsecond. Her pendant necklace dangled between her breasts, nearly vibrating with the heat of her.

“Dan is right,” Dev clarified, breaking the silence, his brand-new phone perched loosely in his hand without a case. “Can we please drop this now?”

Devesh Saxena, always two steps ahead, was the heir to a global manufacturing dynasty that started over a century ago in a tiny village in India. Born knowing his worth, he was devoid of patience for anything but Bee. They were their own kind of royal couple, and their edicts felt as substantial as actual monarchy. If they were done with a subject, that subject was closed.