"Hey, you." I nudged his knee to get his attention. I put down the book I was pretending to read and watched him raise his brows and close his book around his thumb to know which page he was already on.

"Yeah?" He looked at me with a smile.

It was a charming smile. He always smiles charmingly, what am I even saying? Again, God's favorite. But even that smile can't cheer me up right now. I thought when I volunteered to sit with him in the living room on his super fluffy sofa while he read, my boredom would be out of my system, but no. It stayed and set up a camp. In my defense, an Italian cookbook doesn't really have a nice plot.

"I'm bored," I told him with a pout.

He looked at my book. "You told me you'd enjoy that because it has a lot of pictures."

"Well, pizza doesn't look good in every angle." I shrugged.

He chuckled and leaned in to his palm coffee table to reach for his bookmark which was a laminated baby's-breath. He put it in where his thumbs were and finally put the book down on the table. Once unoccupied, he faced me and rested his hands on his lap, suddenly attentive.

"What do you want to do?" he asked me with extreme interest.

"I don't know. What can I do in your humble abode?" I fling my hands in the air to emphasize my sarcasm on humble because owning an entire floor in an apartment complex that has a working thermostat is not humble at all. "Do you have playstation or something?"

"I don't, I'm sorry. I don't play video games." He gave me an apologetic smile.

"Wow, you're really the ideal type of ideal women!"

He furrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're God's favorite," I told him point-blank.

He laughed. "I assure you, I am not."

"Whatever. I'm entitled to my opinion." I stood up and repeatedly tap the sides of my legs as I looked around his living room. "Come on, let's do something!" I whined to him as I jumped on my place like a seven year old who can't get a Play Doh.

"Well, what haven't you tried to do? We can start from that, like a bucket list!"

I sat on the carpet and rested my chin on the palm table. "I haven't done everything! What do people even do for fun these days?"

He shrugged. "I don't know, drugs?"

"Oh, tried that. What else?"

"Um, drinking? Clubbing?"

"I was asking about what other people do for fun, not your college bucket list, you. I was thinking more of like... car theft, property break-in, petty robbery. Those kinds of fun."

He didn't respond, which made me think that he was already contemplating on calling the cops on me.

I chuckled. "Well, if it wasn't obvious, I was kidding—"

"Really? 'Cause I've already thought of whose property to trespass." He answered, his eyes bright with a tinge of disappointment.

"So you were quiet because you were running a demonstration in your head just now?"

"I wouldn't call it a demonstration; it's more like a plan," he corrected me. "I was thinking of the ex-military in the Maple Street a couple of blocks away."

My jaw fell as my eyeballs slipped out of their sockets. Is he insane?!

"Have you gone mad?! You're making me trespass an ex-military's house for my first break-in?! That's like giving a kindergartener a physics problem!"

"He may not be an ex-military, for all I know," he casually said.

"Ha! How are you so cool about this?! He might have a gun, you!" I made a gun with my fingers and shot it at him. "He can do that!"

"I mean, I'm not entirely sure if he was a retired military. I just told people he might be because I saw a dog tag on his neck when he moved in. You know how people overreact and twist things." He shrugged, leaning on the back of the sofa as if he didn't just drop a bomb on me.

"Wait, you told people that?! How about the rumor that he killed his wife who had an affair?! He was called Diabetic Murderer for Christ's sake!"

"All I said was he believed he would kill his spouse if he ever caught her cheating. People must've misunderstood," he shrugged. "But the diabetes was true! I saw that he had an insulin pen on his pocket once." He pointed at her in passion of what he was saying before he put his hands back on his chest

"It couldn't have been his! Or it might just be a regular pen. Why do you even think you know what an insulin pen looks like?! You're sure of nothing about the man, yet you had already told the whole neighborhood that he was a diabetic and a killer!" I explained to him, my voice rising in panic.

"Hey, it's not my fault people twist my assumptions!" He sulked.

Stolen novel; please report.

"Where did you even get these "assumptions" of yours?" I air-quoted.

"From him. He frequents my restaurant."

Again, jaw on the floor; eyeballs out of their holes. Did he just say my restaurant?!

"I—" I blinked a couple of times in disbelief. "Y-You have your own restaurant?!"

He nodded. "Yes. They're in the outskirts of town."

"I—!" I facepalmed then moved my hand on my agape mouth. "That Michelin star restaurant is yours?!"

His face brightened up suddenly. "Yes! You know of it?!"

"Bitch, everyone knows about Fate's!" I rolled my eyes at him. "Why didn't you say anything to me?!"

He shrugged. "I didn't think it was of any importance."

"Had you said that, I would've even slept with you on the night we met! Like, no questions asked!" I blabbered with my hands.

"Really? Then, I'm the owner and the chef of Fate's," he quickly jumped the gun. His seriousness in saying it made me chuckle.

"Well, you didn't start with that, so offer's no longer valid." I dismissed him with my hand. He drooped like a slime as soon as I said no. "I have an idea: let's visit your restaurant! To be honest, since it's so high-end and expensive, I haven't even dared cross the sidewalk in front of it. I always take a detour because I was afraid I'd be charged for just looking at the logo." I laughed, but the bitter memories resurfaced in my head. Yeah, those were rough times.

"That's why I hadn't seen you pass by!" he pointed out as if everything just made sense. "Just to inform you, had you entered Fate's, everything on the menu is free."

I scowled. "You're like the worst entrepreneur, then." I scoffed, standing up.

"It's only free for you though?" He also stood up and we're now at eye level.

"How would you even know it was me? You didn't know me before."

He only smiled charmingly as an answer.

----------------------------------------

There was a bell at Fate's when a person enters through the door. By the entrance, there was a service staff in neat, black uniform who welcomed us warmly. She first saw me enter and asked if I had a reservation. When the Apparently-Insanely-Rich guy entered behind me, recognition hit her which prompted her to bow and greet him.

"Good afternoon, sir," she respectfully spoke with grace.

"Good afternoon, too." Mister Charming smiled again. "I'm here with her. Get us a private room."

"No!" I tugged on the sleeve of his black shirt. "I want to sit where the regular rich people sit!"

He looked down to me with an even charming smile. This reached his eyes. I'm certain it was because he found me adorable like how a puppy would whine to play catch in the park was adorable.

"Sit us in table six, then. Second floor," he relayed to the staff while I waited beside him with a large grin. I knew rich people would see me so I wore my hole-less lavender fitted top and secondhand Brandy Melville jeans. It was rather tight on the crotch when I sit but it's the only branded jeans I have. I like to save this pain and suffering on special occasions.

The lady staff looked through her reservation book. "Sorry, sir. That table's reserved for two people at 3 PM."

"Cancel it."

My neck snapped to look at him as if he just grew a third ear. He said it with his charming business smile, too! His face was pleasant but his voice quivered knees. Is he power playing right now?

The lady was speechless, unsure of what to say. I caught her look at me for help. I nodded at her, feeling like a prince helping out a damsel in distress.

"Hey, now that I think about it, I kinda wanna go to a private room instead." I told him while tugging his sleeve again to get his attention.

"But it's closed off. There are no windows or sceneries. And that doesn't really serve the vibe of the restaurant," he told me, suddenly droopy. "You also said you wanted regular tables! Table six has the best view of the city. I know you love sceneries."

I chuckled to play it off because he's talking as if I'm his girlfriend. The staff might get the wrong idea.

"That's okay, friend! Ha-ha! Even a place without a view is fine!" I turned to the lady staff after a very awkward laugh. "Is there any regular table open?"

"I'm afraid we're fully booked today, ma'am." Her gaze turned to the man beside me cautiously. "Even the private rooms..."

Even without looking at him, I knew he was giving her a deathly glare because she started to fumble. I could feel her fear emanating from every pore of her skin.

"Then, maybe we can just come back another ti—"

A noisy couple emerged from the doors and interrupted me. We, three, followed them with our eyes because they took all the hearing space in the room with their high-pitch giggles. Luckily, they didn't linger around too much and just headed for the exit behind us.

"Give us their table," he instructed the lady, pertaining to the loud couple who just left.

"Uh—y-yes, sir." The lady frantically went inside under the glare of Mister Bossy beside me.

I elbowed him softly. "Don't glare at her. You're putting her in a difficult position, you know. For your information, the restaurant doesn't cancel a reservation; the customers do. And I also heard that you should reserve a table here six months in advance to be seated! Surely, the customer would give your employees hell!"

He blinked innocently at me. "I wasn't glaring at her."

"You were! Did you see how she quivered in fear?!"

"I'm sure I didn't," he insisted. "I don't glare when I'm with you."

He giggled as if he just said the most romantic thing on earth.

"The table's r-ready, s-sir!" The lady staff appeared suddenly, cutting our conversation short. She was sweating and out of breath. If I had money with me, I would tip her right then and there.

"Thank you," he smiled at her again and she bowed in response. Before I went in, I gave her a smile and a thumbs up.

"Good afternoon, sir—" we were greeted by a familiar, old man in a black suit. He saw me and cut himself short. "Sir. Let me lead you to your table."

Just like the lady staff, he bowed at him only that his was more refined and robotic-like. And it was a perfect 90-degree one. I'm not a protractor but his sharp angles couldn't deny it.

"Good afternoon, David," he greeted back. And when that man rose we met eye-to-eye and it instantly clicked for me.

"Diabetic Murderer!" I peeped while I pointed at him. When I realized people were staring, I instantly put down my hand and covered my mouth.

What is he doing here?! And how does he know Apparently-A-Big-time guy?! Seeing how he talked to him, does Diabetic Murderer work for him?!

I looked at the guy beside me for answers.

"Oh, this is David, my secretary," he casually said. "Or yeah, you better know him as the diabetic who killed his wife."