“Get the f**k out of my room,” I said in a low, clipped tone. “If you’re that desperate for company, tell the chef to pull up a seat and eat with you.”
He rolled his eyes, clearly used to my threats. He turned to leave, but before he could shut the door behind him, I added, “Oh, and Davin—find out everything that was damaged at Amara’s café. I want it replaced. Go vintage with the furniture.”
He paused in the doorway, halfway between insulted and exasperated. “I came here to invite you to dinner, and somehow left with more work?”
“Did I forget to add?” I leaned back against the headboard, smirking. “No one whines like you do.”
“Unbelievable,” he muttered, dragging himself away like a wounded martyr.
“Don’t let the door hit your face on the way out,” I called after him.
Scoffing, Davi
