“Hey, Casablancas. Come to ruin another fine piece of this small town?” he all but spat at Row’s feet as we stood on the buffet-style line along a table. Whoa. What the hell? Row was royalty in this place. Staindrop’s golden boy. He had been handled with adoration and respect before he’d gone on to become the American Alain Ducasse. His shitty attitude added to his mysterious aura and bad-boy persona. “I think I’m going to spare her.” Row dunked a sponge cake in an unidentifiable syrup, sniffing it before tossing it into his mouth. “Not my type and talks a mile a minute.”
