“Who, me? Of Miss Universe? Nah. She probably doesn’t own a single pair of sweats.”
His lips curve up at the edges.
Then we’re walking into the restaurant, hand in hand.
It’s by far the most ostentatious space I’ve ever seen.
Like Masha the hostess, everything is gold and sparkling. The wallpaper, the chandeliers, the table linens, the chairs. The carpeting underfoot is plush, with a bold, gold-and-plum swirly pattern that would outdo any Vegas casino. The ceiling, far overhead, reflects the room from a thousand mirrored panels. Ferns and stands of potted palms adorn the nooks and crevices of the room, and a subtle, expensive scent perfumes the air.
All the elegant dining tables sit empty, with the exception of the three we’re walking toward.
The two large round tables are occupied b
