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although it was a gift for him, she would wear it. I admire her style.
    Elliot is still a little stunned that I’m not gushing over the gift that he’s also given me for Christmas, Valentine’s Day, and our first year anniversary. “ That's ridiculous.” He refuses to back down. “All women love Elizabeth's Conspiracy.”
    “ Not if it makes them break out in hives,” I tell him, but I’m pretty sure he’s already stopped paying attention. I set the basket on the floor, fully intending to leave it behind when we’re finished.
    I give my boyfriend an expectant look, but he doesn’t pick up on it, instead focusing his attentions on complaining about the prices on the menu. Finally, I realize the subtle approach is not going to work, so I say, “ Elliot, didn't we talk about you trying harder to be on time?”
    His pained expression conveys that he thinks my expectations are unreasonable and I’m really just being a nag. “ It’s no big deal,” he shrugs. “I got hung up.”
    “You could have called,” I point out. “Cell phones do exist.”
    “Nope.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and waves it at me. “Battery's dead.”
    I just don’t understand why every guy I’ve ever dated feels it’s his mission in life to crap all over my birthday. I mean, how hard is it to make a reservation and maybe put on a nice shirt? I’m seriously ready to lay into him, but I stop myself because out of the corner of my eye, I see Trent Winchell approaching our table.
    If it wasn’t obvious by his last name matching that of the hotel, Trent is a member of the Winchell family. He runs the hotel and restaurant where I work. He’s that rich-boy, boarding-school blond and very fit from playing polo or whatever it is wealthy men do for exercise. He’s wearing an expensive-looking sweater and dark slacks. There’s that easy confidence about him that only being born into wealth can provide. Everything about him screams that he comes from old money.
    Full disclosure—I’ve had a mad crush on Trent for about two years now. That’s when I was driving to work in a horrible rainstorm, and I blew a tire. Trying to change a tire in good light during a nice day on a quiet street is challenging enough, but during a downpour on the side of the highway with cars whipping past, all of them feeling the need to lay on their horns, is extra challenging. That’s when out of nowhere, a Town Car pulled up, and Trent lowered the back window. “Need a lift?” he asked, flashing me a compassionate smile. He didn’t exactly know me at the time but recognized me as a Bouche employee as they went past, so he had his driver loop back around to see if I was okay. Then he gave me a ride to work, called someone to fix my car, plus bring it to the Winchell, and he didn’t even complain as I dripped on his leather seats. Talk about insta-crush. Not that he would ever think of me in a romantic light, but a girl can admire from afar, can’t she?
    “Suzanne.” Trent comes over to me and takes my hand in both of his. My body goes electric as I feel like I’m holding a live wire. “Aziz tells me it's your birthday.”
    My face is on fire, and I can’t stop my free hand from flying to my hair to make sure it’s all right. “ Trent,” I exclaim. “I mean, Mr. Winchell... I mean, Trent.” I’m sounding like a complete idiot, so I take a deep breath and try to pull it together. Uh... This is my boyfriend...” and then I completely blank on his name. “...Uh...” is all I manage.
    “Elliot,” Elliot snaps with warranted irritation.
    “Nice to meet you, Elliot.” Trent flashes a smile that probably cost as much as a four-year–college tuition. He doesn’t really look in Elliot’s direction, though; he keeps his gaze on me. “Sue, I'm sending over a bottle of champagne to your table. Compliments of the Winchell Hotel.”
    “Thank you Mr. ... Trent.” If my face gets any more red, I’m sure it can be used to warn ships away