Ellie's POV
Five days without Tyler feels like three weeks trapped underwater.
We had four nights together before he left, and by the third, the pain had dissolved into pure pleasure, my body finally learning the rhythm of his.
Now I lie awake craving more, and the emptiness beside me feels like punishment.
I can't stop imagining the paddock girls, the models, the women who orbit Formula 1 drivers like moths around expensive flames.
Tyler told me we aren't exclusive. He made the terms clear, and I agreed to them.
But agreement doesn't stop the jealousy from clawing at my chest every time I picture some gorgeous stranger pressing against him in a Monaco nightclub.
I pace my room until the ocean view starts to feel mocking—all that endless freedom I can't touch.
The restaurant. Derek's restaurant.
The thought just pops up. He offered me work before, and I was actually good at it—Maria said so herself.
I can swallow my pride long enough to ask for a real position, something that pays actual wages instead of favors between quasi-family members.
The only problem is transportation.
I don't have a car. The Uber app on my phone shows a thirty-dollar estimate to downtown, which would eat most of my remaining funds.
So I find the nearest bus route, and start walking.
Los Angeles is different on foot. The glamour dissolves into cracked sidewalks and palm trees that look tired instead of tropical. The bus smells like diesel and someone's leftover fast food, and the passengers ignore me with complete indifference.
I arrive at the restaurant forty minutes before closing.
The host recognizes me from my emergency shift and waves me toward the back without questions.
I weave through the dining room—still half-full with couples lingering over dessert wine and businessmen pretending their expense accounts are bottomless—and push through the kitchen doors.
Derek stands at the pass, checking plates. His sleeves are rolled up, his hair mussed from heat and stress, and he looks more real than I've ever seen him.
"Ellie." Surprise flickers across his face, replaced quickly by that trademark warmth. "What are you doing here? Is everything okay at the house?"
"Everything's fine, I just wanted to talk to you about—"
The back door bangs open before I can finish.
"Derek McKinney, you absolute bastard." A woman's voice cuts through the kitchen chaos, followed by a cascade of laughter. "You promised us after-hours drinks three weeks ago and then ghosted harder than my ex-girlfriend."
A group spills into the space—five people, maybe six, all of them carrying the unmistakable sheen of inherited wealth.
Designer clothes styled to look effortless. Watches that cost more than my entire wardrobe. Smiles that suggest they've never worried about bus fare in their lives.
"Sasha, I was working." Derek pulls the woman into a quick hug. "Some of us have actual responsibilities beyond terrorizing bottle service waiters at Soho House."
"Work is for people who lack imagination," a man drawls, his accent something European and expensive. "Close this place down and break out the good champagne. We've earned it."
The kitchen staff exchanges glances—the particular look of employees who know better than to complain when the boss's friends arrive unannounced.
Within minutes, the restaurant is emptying, the lights are dimming, and someone produces bottles of Veuve Clicquot from a cooler.
I hover near the walk-in refrigerator, suddenly aware that I don't belong here.
The group migrates to a corner booth, their laughter echoing through the empty dining room. Names wash over me—Chase, Sasha, something that might be Maximilian—but none of them stick.
They're talking about people I don't know, places I've never been, scandals involving trust funds and yacht parties and someone's father's third wife.
I should leave. I should slip out the back door and catch the last bus home and pretend this awkward detour never happened.
"Ellie, get over here." Derek's voice cuts through my internal debate. "You're making me look like a terrible host."
I force my feet to move, sliding into the booth beside him. Sasha eyes me with open curiosity, her champagne glass catching the candlelight as she brings it to her lips.
"And who is this?" Her smile is pleasant enough, but I recognize the assessment beneath it. "I don't think we've met."
Derek's arm slides around my waist before I can formulate a response. His hand settles on my hip, pulling me close against his side.
"Ellie's my girlfriend," he says, his voice carrying that easy charm I've come to associate with his public persona. "She's been keeping me sane this summer."
The lie lands without warning.
My mouth opens to correct him—to explain that I'm actually his step-cousin, or his father's charity case, or whatever label makes the most sense for our tangled situation—but Derek's hand squeezes my hip.
This is a silent plea wrapped in physical pressure.
I turn to look at his face, and beneath the casual smile I see the same desperation I glimpsed when he told me about his no-strings philosophy.
He needs this. For reasons I don't understand, he needs me to play along.
"That's right," I hear myself say, leaning into his side. "Someone has to keep him grounded, and his cooking skills certainly aren't going to do it. I've seen him burn toast in a professional kitchen."
Derek's surprised laugh rewards my improvisation. "That was one time, and the smoke alarm was clearly defective."
"The firefighters disagreed," I counter, warming to the role. "They had very strong opinions about your relationship with temperature control."
The table erupts in laughter, and Sasha's assessment shifts from suspicious to intrigued. She refills my glass without being asked.
"God, Derek, where have you been hiding her?" The European man leans forward with genuine interest. "She's actually funny, which is more than I can say for your usual type."
"My usual type is none of your business, Max." But Derek is grinning, his arm tightening around me. "And I've been hiding her because I'm selfish and didn't want to share."
The night shifts after that.
I stop hovering at the edges and let myself be pulled into their orbit. The champagne flows freely—bottle after bottle appearing as if by magic—and the stories they swap become less about name-dropping and more about genuine memories.
Chase's disaster of a trip to Ibiza. Sasha's ongoing war with her stepmother's interior designer. The time Max accidentally bought a racehorse while drunk and had to explain the purchase to his very unamused mother.
"To be fair," Max protests, "the horse was a genuine bargain, and Sir Reginald Whiskers has since won three regional competitions, which makes me a business genius rather than an impulsive idiot."
"You named your racehorse Sir Reginald Whiskers?" I can't keep the disbelief from my voice. "Please tell me you were still drunk when that decision was made."
"Stone cold sober, unfortunately." His grin is sheepish. "It gives him character."
By midnight, I've stopped questioning why Derek needed the pretense.
The champagne has softened my usual defensiveness, and somewhere between Sasha's story about her charity gala disaster and Chase's impression of his father's golf swing, I've started genuinely laughing.
Derek watches me from across the booth—he's moved to refill drinks, playing host even among friends—and his expression catches me off guard.
I can't read it. The easy charm is still there, but underneath lurks something that makes my champagne-fuzzy brain want to ask questions I'm not sure he'd answer.
"You're staring," I tell him, because directness is easier than uncertainty.
"You're worth staring at." He says it simply, without his usual flirtation, and the sincerity in his voice makes my breath catch.
I don't know what game we're playing anymore. But for tonight, I decide to stop keeping score.
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