"I want to speak to the chef."

Even with his charming smile and poised temper, the undertone of frustration in his voice and the gritting of his teeth are more than enough to give away Harry's current mental state. The waitress's not an idiot, thankfully, but her scurrying away towards the kitchen does little to improve his mood.

Harry's no stranger to the eccentricity that comes with being rich; he may be more grounded compared to other New York socialite trust-fund babies like him, but you grow accustomed to the unconventional world of old-money families the longer you spend time in their circles. It's what drew him to Savor tonight, an up-and-coming fusion restaurant opened by the child of one of his father's business partners, and while Harry won't proclaim himself a "foodie," he will jump at any chance to pay good money and expand his palate. He'd initially thought the name was clever– "savor" your food and live in the moment– but that changes when the waitress tells him he can't bring his leftovers home after he asks for the bill.

"It's just our policy." Bullshit. Policy was for upholding investment contracts and following procedures when acquiring new businesses, not for justifying why Harry couldn't take his damn food home in a doggy-bag. This was an entirely new level of eccentricity and ridiculousness for him, and that was saying something; he was the one willingly paying an arm and a leg for the meal in the first place.

His blunt fingernails drum softly on the ivory-colored tablecloth, only to pause briefly so he can adjust the ironed collar of his shirt. It's already been five minutes, just how hard is it to get coverage on the kitchen line for a minute or two–

"You wanted to speak with me, sir?"

Harry sighs under his breath, scrubbing his hand over his beard before turning in his chair. "Yes, would you care to explain to me why–"

His voice falters when he finally looks up at you, and that means something. He's 48 years old, making more money in a year than most people see in one lifetime, and he's speechless at the sight of a disgruntled James Beard Award hopeful covered in what looks like avocado crema and spices. Harry Castillo doesn't crack under pressure, not after all the time and money he invested into himself to bolster his confidence.

Reason goes out the window. Logic abandons him in his hour of need. When he'd broken up with Lucy six months earlier, it'd oddly made sense; they weren't compatible, not in the way that mattered. Now, however, sense is nowhere to be found, and for once, Harry sees a future and not a business proposal.

"... Could you spare a few minutes of your time?"

Now's a good time as any to savor the moment, especially if it ends with your number in his phone and him on your mind.