The Wrong Fiancée: A Billionaire Second Chance Romance (Marriage by Contract Book 3)
The Wrong Fiancée: Chapter 8

‘It’s like the universe is shitting on me,’ I said to Chef Nalu Malulani when I saw the hostess seat the Thatcher party in my section.

Chef Nalu glanced over from the open kitchen of the steakhouse, wiping his hands on a towel, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips. ‘Are they following you around, or are you stalking him?’

I rolled my eyes. ‘I can’t believe three nights in a row they’ve been where I’ve been. First at Ke Kai, then at Lava Lua, and now here.’

‘You’re just lucky,’ Chef teased.

I groaned, leaning against the counter. ‘Why is Lono punishing me?’ I muttered under my breath. Lono, the God of fertility and peace—neither of which seemed remotely in my future, I thought bitterly as my eyes flicked toward Dean. At that exact moment, he brushed his lips against Felicity’s, and she laughed, her voice light and carefree, while he wore that smug, indulgent smile that made my stomach churn. ‘Did I piss off the gods in a past life or something?’

Nalu was married to my boss, Leilani, and knew almost everything about my life. They were the closest thing I had to family.

‘As Leilani would say, chin up….’

‘Tits out,’ I supplied.

‘And get on with it,’ he finished.

I glanced toward the kitchen, where the final touches were being added to the plates. The heat from the open grill mixed with the clatter of pots and pans, and the hum of conversation from the dining room drifted in through the swinging doors. The rush was in full swing, but I couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened earlier.

‘Yeah. I’ll take table twelve’s food and then deal with the nasties,’ I dropped my voice to a whisper.

Chef laughed. ‘Hey, they’re related to you.’

‘Tell me about it,’ I muttered under my breath, careful not to be overheard by the other staff. ‘He came to my place before my shift here today. Wanted to talk.’

Chef Nalu’s attention remained on the plate his sous chef placed in front of him. He inspected it with precision—the seared scallops arranged just so, garnished with a light drizzle of citrus beurre blanc and a sprinkle of fresh herbs. He adjusted the garnish with a pair of tongs, nodding only after everything was perfect.

‘Talk about what?’ he asked, handing the plate back to the line cook for finishing.

I shook my head, not wanting to get into the details right now. ‘Tell you later.’ I stepped forward to the kitchen pass just as another dish came out—the gnocchi, finished in a sage brown butter sauce, topped with shaved parmesan.

Nalu glanced at me with concern but didn’t push for more.

‘I better get these out while they’re still hot.’ I picked up both plates.

My movements were practiced and steady, but my mind wasn’t. Dean was seated just a few tables over, his presence like a magnet pulling at the edges of my thoughts. But I pushed it aside as I approached the adjoining table.

‘Here’s your seared scallops.’ I smiled, setting the first plate down in front of the woman at table twelve. ‘And for you,’ I added, placing the gnocchi in front of her companion, ‘house-made gnocchi in sage brown butter sauce. Enjoy.’

They thanked me warmly.

I took a deep breath and walked to their table.

I should’ve guessed they’d make the rounds of all five restaurants at Hale Moana. I’d just have to make sure to check the bookings before I committed myself to a shift next time, I decided dryly.

Pele’s Flame was one of the stuffier restaurants on the property. I was more a tiki lounge kinda girl. But when a resort’s clientele paid as handsomely as the Moana Hale’s did—the dining options were the epitome of high-end island dining.

At the steakhouse, the open-air design allowed for the trade winds to sweep through the room, carrying the scent of sizzling steaks and roasted herbs with it. Tiki torches cast a soft glow over the dark wood tables. At the same time, the flicker of candlelight added an intimate, tropical ambiance.

When I got to their table, for a moment, no one noticed me. I mean, who noticed their server—not these rich haoles. I couldn’t wait for the fun to begin. Ginny would throw her influence around. Felicity would pout. Uncle Sam would be uncomfortable because his spine was soft. Rebecca and Michael would ignore me, while their daughter Cristin would try to bait me. Theo would smile, trying to make nice, and Dean…well, who the hell knew what he’d do?

‘Good evening. I’ll be your server this evening.’

‘Not again,’ Ginny rage whispered.

Fuck, bitch, imagine how I feel, I thought, but I kept a smile on my face.

‘Are you following us?’ Felicity asked.

Yeah, because I have the time and energy to do that kind of shit. Please!

‘Pele’s is short-staffed, Mrs. Thatcher, which is why I was called in.’

Uncle Sam put a hand on his wife’s, but she pushed it away, glowering at me. ‘The nerve⁠—’

‘Ginny, let’s just order,’ Dean cut her off, ‘I’m hungry, and, honestly, I don’t understand the problem. Elika is an excellent server, and I’d very much like to get through one dinner without drama.’

The gasp that went around the table was so soft that it was loud.

‘Dean,’ Felicity admonished, but he ignored her and continued to peruse the menu.

I bit the inside of my cheek, fighting back a laugh, watching the shocked faces of the Thatcher party. Dean had just dropped a truth bomb the size of Mauna Kea, and by the look on Felicity’s face, she wasn’t quite sure whether to be mortified or furious. Maybe both.

‘Dean,’ Felicity repeated, her voice slightly higher this time, like if she repeated his name in a tone that suggested she was deeply wounded, he’d suddenly apologize for daring to speak out of turn. But nope. Dean just leaned back in his chair, calm as a cat lounging in the sun, like he hadn’t just verbally drop-kicked his future in-laws.

Ginny’s face was a tight knot of displeasure, her hand clutching her menu like she might strangle it. ‘Well,’ she huffed, ‘we’ll want some wine, and this time, send the Sommelier.’ She glanced at me and gave in to the urge to say something cutting, ‘I didn’t appreciate your choices the last time.’

No shit, Sherlock! It’s because you have the palate of a moron, I thought petulantly. There was such malice in her face as if she wanted to rub it in that I was too lowly to even recommend wine for them. Did it hurt? Yes. I was human. When people threw barbs at me, pain seared through me mostly because it was confirmation of what I already knew—I was simply not good enough and would never be. I’d always be a failure and never reach my dreams. I’d keep working to take care of a sister who’d never appreciate me. I’d keep working in hotels at the bottom of the food chain while dreaming about studying art and working in that world.

Ginny would enjoy knowing that her comment had been successful, so I smiled brightly, refusing to give her satisfaction.

‘Of course, Mrs. Thatcher. I’ll ask the Sommelier to come to your table as soon as he can.’

I looked around the table and waited for someone to order their drinks. Dean’s eyes flicked up to meet mine, and I was surprised to see kindness and regret.

I took the drinks orders and sent Makai, our Sommelier, to the table. He obviously knew the Thatchers and groaned. No one liked Ginny or Felicity. Sure, they went after me, but they were entitled bitches who raised hell if anything was out of place.

By the time their drinks were served, wine was opened and poured, and I came to get their food orders, there was a buzz of easy conversation at their table; the alcohol, I assumed, had mellowed them all out.

‘I’ll have the porterhouse, medium-rare, with a side of truffle butter,’ Uncle Sam said, his voice weak as always. You could practically hear the apology in his tone. The man couldn’t make a decision without double-checking to make sure no one else had a problem with it. He avoided eye contact as he handed me the menu.

‘Excellent choice,’ I said softly. I felt sorry for him—at least I was on my own; I didn’t have to live with someone like Ginny, who kept scratching away until she drew blood.

Predictably, Rebecca and Michael didn’t even acknowledge me as they ordered. Rebecca chose the lobster bisque and filet mignon, and Michael grunted something about ahi tuna. They had perfected the art of acting like I was a piece of furniture. Their daughter, Cristin, though, was in rare form.

She tilted her head at me, her lips curling in smugly. ‘I’ll have the grilled mahi-mahi—extra lemon, no butter—and remember to tell the chef not to overcook it this time.’ She looked around the table as she handed me her menu. ‘Last year, when we were here, the halibut was horrendous.’

I stared at her for a second, deadpan, then smiled. ‘I’ll make sure they give the mahi-mahi the attention it deserves.’

Theo, bless his heart, smiled at me sympathetically. ‘I’ll take the ribeye, Elika. And, could I get a beer, whatever is on draft. The wine isn’t working for me.’ His smile widened as if to say, I’m sorry for all of this.

Yeah, me too, braddah.

I gave him a quick nod before turning back to Dean. He was still watching me, a faint smile playing on his lips. I couldn’t decide whether he was enjoying himself or feeling awkward.

‘Mr. Archer?’ I asked, pen and notepad in hand, though I never used them. I was good at remembering orders and making sure everyone got exactly what they asked for—just as they’d expect at a high-end restaurant.

He leaned forward slightly, ignoring the glares from around the table. ‘Elika, I’ll have the market green salad and the thirty-day Creekstone Farm ribeye, medium rare. Please choose some sides for me that you feel would be best suited.’

I knew he disliked fries—that should’ve been a warning. I mean, who dislikes fried potatoes? I also knew that he loved mushrooms. Was he testing me to see if I remembered what we ate for two weeks all those years ago?

We didn’t eat at the resort. We went out—probably, I realized later, so no one he knew would see us together. After my shift, he’d insist on taking me to dinner. He always paid the tab, and while I felt guilty, I couldn’t afford the places he chose. Often, we took the dessert back to his suite. One night, we had a particularly memorable time with chocolate fondue—though I’m sure housekeeping wasn’t thrilled with what we did to the sheets.

My heart quickened, and I couldn’t help but wish I were in some parallel universe—one where it was me sitting next to Dean, that embarrassingly huge and beautiful ring on my finger instead of Felicity’s.

That pulled me out of my reverie as soundly as a wave slammed into me unexpectedly.

He’s marrying Felicity. He belongs to another woman, not that he was ever yours, Elika.

I suggested, ‘How do you feel about Enoki mushrooms with garlic and scallion sauce, and creamed corn served with smoked anchovy butter and topped with paprika panko?‘

‘That sounds good. Thank you, Elika.’

He winked. He actually winked, and I had to force myself not to roll my eyes. Instead, I smiled, collected the menus, and made my way back toward the kitchen, hearing Felicity muttering something to her mother in a hushed, indignant tone.

‘You okay there, Elika?’ Makai, our Sommelier, asked me.

I quirked an eyebrow. ‘Yeah, I’m all good.’

‘They still giving you trouble?’ he asked, nodding toward the Thatcher table.

I smirked. ‘No. Looks like tonight they’re pissed with their future son-in-law. He told them to just order and no drama.’

Makai chuckled. ‘He continues like that, he won’t be their son-in-law.’

And that would be okay with me!

I dropped the order at the pass-through, smiling widely as Chef Nalu raised an eyebrow at me.

‘What’s got you smiling?’ he asked, checking the steaks lined up for grilling.

Dean Archer, the well-mannered, stoic fiancé of Felicity Thatcher, had just gone rogue. And, honestly, it was the funniest thing I’d seen in weeks. Watching him handle his future in-laws without actually being rude? That was an art form.

‘It’s a beautiful evening,’ I replied pleasantly.

‘It’s good to see you smile, Elika.’

I stilled. I didn’t smile much because I was rarely happy. It used to not be like this. I used to live life to the fullest. Now, I felt empty when I wasn’t running to work or Noe—no surprise there; after all, my life was pretty hollow, with no time for anything but the grind.

Maybe once Noe rejoined society, even if she had to do it in a wheelchair, then I’d have time for myself. But as things stood, Noe was not in a headspace to work. She was still bitter.

Leilani thought it was wrong that I was still taking care of her. For the first two years after the accident, I didn’t have a choice—she needed physical therapy. But ever since we moved to Kauai, she could’ve gone to therapy as an outpatient at Ka Pono. Still, she wanted to live there. I didn’t blame her; the place was like a resort. Hell, I wanted to live there, too, not that I could afford it—I could barely manage to keep Noe there.

I went back to the dining area and took care of my guests, filling glasses with wine, making sure everyone had everything they needed, and ignoring Ginny’s complaints.

Didn’t it get exhausting to keep so much anger and bitterness inside her? I wondered. There was a rot inside Ginny, I knew, this insidious need to constantly feel better by making others feel bad. Noe had some of that. Felicity too.

When Chef told me the Thatcher table’s service was ready, I got to work, game face on.

I was already exhausted, and I still had four more hours left on my shift.