The Age of Forever | ✓

8 | Ethereal

HAPPY SATURDAY! I hope you enjoy this update and thanks for reading! I hope you have a great weekend and I'll see you guys next week!

***

"Avalanche comin' down slow "

~ Live is Worth Living (Purpose)

"OH no, you don't have to pay," he intruded quickly, grabbing my arm gently as a way to stop me from reaching for my wallet.

My lips parted in surprise. "Um. I ate their food. I have to pay. That's sort of how this works, Harold."

He snickered at my comment and shook his head, leaning back into his chair. "Okay, first of all, you didn't eat anything. You pushed around the food like it was poisonous."

I squinted my eyes at him. "And secondly?"

He shrugged. "I know the owner, he'll be fine with you not paying, especially for a meal you barely enjoyed."

"That's not," I began but stopped short when I realized that I had nothing relevant to say. "Who owns this place anyway?"

"You're looking at him."

"You?" I gasped.

He nodded, studying me intently and looking for something I couldn't put my finger on.

"How?"

He chuckled. "You sound flabbergasted. Can't a man own a restaurant?"

An automatic scoff left my lips and I couldn't pull it back. So I decided to own it. "You know I wasn't going there."

He nodded, amusement playing clearly in his eyes. "I know. I was just teasing you, love," he took a break then, gesturing at the restaurant, "I bought it a few months ago and I'm letting them run it the way they've always done until I can buy some time to change it all up."

My eyebrows furrowed. "Change it all up? What do you mean?"

"Change it up to my sense of style," he smiled at me, understanding the questioning look that had taken over my face. "I own restaurants, love. I'm a professional Chef."

I choked. On nothing. The coughs were horrendous, causing my throat to dry quicker than I could reach for the glass of water that wasn't there. I could feel Harold patting me on my back, trying to calm me down. Swallowing hard, I took in a deep breath and allowed the coughs to die down slowly. At last, I looked up at him, finding his humorous eyes that gazed at me with worry. "You alright?" he asked, his hand tracing light circles on my back.

"You're a chef?" I blurted out too fast, causing the coughs to restart. I better not die today.

Not funny.

Harold drew his hand from my back and called at the waiter. "Get us a glass of water, please."

Even though my eyes were teared up and my throat completely dry, I couldn't help but take in how quickly the waiter had gotten here with the glass of water. He actually bowed and said, "There you go, sir."

Holy shit. He's not kidding.

But there was no time for me to debate that as he immediately handed me the glass and ordered me to drink it. I couldn't decline; my throat actually hurt and it felt as though I was gradually dying.

I drank slowly, allowing my mind to clear as the coughs retreated back into oblivion and my throat doused. Putting the glass back down, my eyes wandered over to Harold, catching him watching me cautiously, as if he was afraid to say something. "Is there something wrong?"