The Billionaire and the Runaway Bride by Nadia Lee

Chapter Forty-Five

Declan

The moment we step into the restaurant, Yuna smiles.

“Like it?” I ask, pleased to see her happy. I should’ve brought her here weeks ago. The place isn’t super fancy, but it’s clean and airy, with lots of people eating already. A good sign.

“Love it. How did you know I like table d’hôte? Most Americans prefer Korean barbecue.”

“Because I have broad horizons when it comes to food?” I can’t tell her I heard from her friends when I’m trying to keep the party a secret.

The hostess seats us at a table for two, then takes Mr. Choi and Ms. Kim to a table on the opposite side of the restaurant. I watch the entire process with amusement. They drag their feet like lambs being led to a slaughterhouse. I guess telling them it’s my treat isn’t helping much.

“Just look at Mr. Choi.” Yuna leans closer. “He looks like he just bit into a sandy clam.”

“Yeah, he sort of does.”

“He shouldn’t look so unhappy. It isn’t like we’re going to do or say anything worth reporting to my mom out here in public.”

Our server interrupts to get our order, and Yuna requests a course with mostly meat dishes and a Diet Coke. I get the same food, since I have no clue what’s good, but with mineral water.

He almost immediately brings out some yellow soup and salad. Now I wish I’d read the menu more carefully so I’d know what the heck I’m eating. I only read the description of the main dish because all the courses seem to have the same appetizer and dessert.

I wait until Yuna takes a spoonful. When she smiles with satisfaction, I taste mine and discover a creamy pumpkin soup. Not bad.

“I don’t think Mr. Choi and Ms. Kim are spying on you,” I say. Her mom’s determined to break us up. What better way than to have her people buzz around us like flies? “Are you going to meet one of those photo guys?” Lady Min doesn’t seem like the type to give up easily. “I saw them on the table at Angelina.”

Yuna cringes. “You saw those, huh?”

“Yeah. Hard not to.”

“I was hoping Mom put them away before you did. Ugh. Those guys aren’t even here, so the answer is no. And even if we were in Korea, I still wouldn’t meet them. I’m not doing a matsun when I’m already with someone.”

“A what?”

“It’s like a blind date, except people meet with the explicit goal of marriage and children. It’s almost always arranged by parents.”

“Wow. A blind date with a commitment.”

“Commitment-phobes need not apply.”

No kidding. I don’t know how a young, single Korean could go to one of those and not be paralyzed with indecision. What if they chose wrong? Children complicate things so much. Aiden advised me never to have children until I’m a hundred percent sure because kids are weaponized during divorce.

Once the main course comes out, I stare at the table in awe. There’s the meat dish—braised short ribs marinated in sweet soy sauce—and rice, which I expected. But there are so many side dishes. I count at least ten.

Yuna sighs and picks up her chopsticks. “This is the stuff. Delivery isn’t the same.”

“How come?” I pick up some kind of fileted white fish fried with egg.

“Because I can never get enough banchan.” She points at the small side dishes. “Those.”

“You should’ve said something. I would’ve brought you here sooner.”

“Here. Have this.” She pushes a small plate with the fried fish.

“But that’s yours.”

She shrugs. “You’re done with yours, which means you like it more than I do. And this is how you know I like you, because I’m sharing my food with you. We do this at home, when my family eats together. It used to annoy Mom when Eugene would drag the braised ribs in front of him so he could monopolize them, even though Mom kept pushing the plate toward me.”

I smile at the warm, homey image. No matter how wealthy or powerful or meddlesome her mom might be, it’s obvious she loves Yuna very much. The private meeting I had with Lady Min weighs heavily on my mind. Now that Yuna brought up her family, I can steer the conversation to those envelopes from her mother.

Should I tell Yuna?

But wouldn’t that upset her? Make her angry with her mother? Unlike Chantel, her mom isn’t using her or warning me away to hurt her. Lady Min is just doing what she thinks is best for Yuna. I don’t want to turn the happy sparks in her eyes into a furious fire.

Yuna eats a rib more delicately than I ever thought possible, using only her chopsticks. “Anyway, when I came here with Ivy, Tony, Nate and Evie, we had a lot of fun with that, pushing plates to each other. Nate said it was so much better than some silly pink car.”

The pink car again. “Do you think a pink car is silly?”

“Nope. I saw one and it’s divine. All shiny and so pink!”

Perfect. I don’t have to come up with a different present.

She continues, “I want to get one at some point, when I can overcome the small bit of weird guilt over the fact that my family owns a fleet of luxury cars just for the sake of owning them.”

“How is that a problem? You like shopping, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but there’s a difference between shopping for cars and clothes. I have no problem with stuffing my closet with dresses and shoes, but cars? They’re so, so expensive. And Mr. Choi wouldn’t look good in a pink vehicle, even if it was a Cullinan.”

I laugh at that, torn between pity and petty satisfaction. Mr. Choi is going to hate that, but then again, he’s been a pain in the ass recently.

The server clears the table when we’re done with the main course and brings out some kind of cloudy liquid in a small bowl, along with some cut fruit. I don’t think it’s for washing hands, although it’s rather cold. I thought Asians drank hot tea or coffee after meals.

“What’s this?” I ask Yuna, who’s looking thrilled at the full bowl in front of her.

“It’s called sikhae. It’s a sweet fermented rice drink. No alcohol, so it’s safe to drink and drive.”

I sniff it, but it doesn’t really have much of a scent. The cloudiness is making me nervous. Still, I should give it a shot, especially after bragging about my culinary horizons. I pick up the bowl and sip just enough to wet my tongue a little. Sweetness fills my mouth. “Hey, not bad.”

“Told you. I love this stuff.” She picks up her bowl and sips a little.

“Uh… Yuna?”

I shift my head at a waiter, who’s standing at our table. He isn’t our server, and how the hell does he know Yuna’s name?

I quickly catalogue the man. He’s Asian, skinny and maybe in his late twenties or early thirties. Slightly wide eyes as though in shock.

Yuna stiffens, then swivels her torso slowly.

“Yuna-ya?” the waiter says, his voice slightly shaky. He reaches out and touches her arm.

Her entire demeanor shifts, and the temperature seems to drop thirty degrees as she gazes at the man. Although she’s seated and the waiter is standing, the sheer arrogance and contempt in her eyes makes it appear as though she’s looking down at him.

Slowly, she reaches into her purse and pulls out a disinfecting wipe. Then, carefully and deliberately, she runs the white sheet over her arm where he touched and puts the used wipe on the table, far from us.

All the while, the waiter merely stares, barely able to speak.

“Yu. Na. Ya?” She raises her eyebrows. Korean words drop from her lips in the most terribly cold voice. It sends chills down my back, and I’m only watching the interaction.

The waiter grows paler. He stammers in Korean back to her. Based on her unchanged expression, it seems to make no difference whatsoever.

Since I’ve never seen her treat anybody with such icy condescension, the waiter must’ve done something to deserve it. Wonder what it was.

Mr. Choi is up and already moving toward us. Yuna raises a hand to stop him.

Finally, the waiter drops his head and scuttles away. The frigid mask drops from Yuna’s face as she turns to me with a smile. “Well. That was unpleasant. Are you ready to go?”

“Yup,” I say, handing my card to our server who rushes over, who immediately takes it and runs off to the cash register. I don’t want to linger any more than we need to, especially after the way our lunch ended.

Yuna shows no real reaction as we leave. And I curse the damned waiter for ruining our lunch date. Fucker.

“Who was that guy?” I ask when we’re back in my car. The dynamic duo are following in a black Mercedes. “The waiter who came over.”

Her eyes go cool for a moment. “You remember the ex I told you about? The one who left me for some lousy money?”

“Yeah…”

“That was him.”

I blink slowly at the amazing coincidence of it all. “I thought that was in Korea.”

“His aunt lives in Los Angeles. He apparently came to the States afterward.” Her lips twist.

I make a mental note to text her friends so they don’t bring her here in the future. Fucking ex.

“So… Are you okay?” I ask.

“What’s not to be okay about? Did you see him?” She gestures behind us, in the direction of the restaurant. “All this time, I thought maybe he did something worthwhile with the money he took and when we ran into each other again, he’d be super successful and slick, with some hot girl on his arm.”

“I doubt he’s that smart. A smart man wouldn’t have left you for anything.” But his stupidity is my gain.

She smiles. “Thanks. Now I don’t feel so terrible about feeling petty satisfaction at seeing him.”

“I would’ve felt the same thing. It’s like seeing some asshole who got all bald and gross at a high school reunion.”

She laughs, then shakes her head. “Yu. Na. Ya. I can’t believe his nerve.”

“Is ya something like san in Japanese?”

“Ya is what Korean people add after a name to someone they’re close to. Like your family, friends and teachers.”

Hmm. She didn’t mention boyfriends, but… “So can I call you Yuna-ya? You can call me Declan-ya, if you want.”

“You’d be Declan-ah.”

“How come?”

“If your name ends in a vowel, you get ya, and otherwise it’s ah. But it sounds awkward to me in English, so I’ll stick with Declan.”

“Okay. Then I’ll be satisfied with just plain ol’ Yuna and Declan.” Although she’s laughing and smiling now, she had to feel annoyed at the scummy ex approaching her like they’re still something, and I don’t want her to do anything that feels awkward to her. Still, I roll it around in my mind. Yuna-ya. I like it. It’s cute. “So why did he talk to you? He has to know you don’t like him anymore.”

“He apparently wanted to apologize for hurting my feelings. I told him if he wants me to accept an apology, he should at least prepare to play me a perfect Chopin waltz.”

“Why a Chopin waltz? Why not, I don’t know…begging on his knees instead? Wouldn’t that be more satisfying?”

“Because it would show how sorry he really is. Anybody can drop to their knees like that.” She snaps her fingers. “A baby can do it. But to play Chopin correctly? That takes a lot of time and effort, which means he’s not going to bother, because it’s too much work. Nobody does, in my experience. Which is why I ask for it.”

Basically, she has no intention of forgiving her ex or anybody else who upset her enough.

“And if he wants to know what I think about the ‘apology,’ he’ll have to figure out what’s on my mind when I play him a piece in return,” she adds.

From the narrow-eyed look on her face, I doubt she’d play anything obvious. Maybe something like Mozart’s famous rage aria, “Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen,” which means “Hell’s vengeance boils in my heart.”

“Anyway, I don’t mind that he won’t bother. My idea of a happy ending is never seeing him again.” She reaches over and squeezes my free hand. “Thanks for lunch, though. The food was good.”

“My pleasure. Next time we’ll go someplace else.”

“Deal.”