“Everyone in Studio City had heard of Mallory’s Table, but no one knew the exact street name or block number. I drove past it twice before spotting the hole in the wall, tucked between a Laundromat and an adult-video store, bordering the hospitable part of the neighborhood. I found a public parking lot two blocks down and ran the entire way back. The exterior looked like nothing more than a simple storefront. Inside, the ambience assaulted me the moment I entered. The walls were painted a rich a...mber, accented with deep burgundy curtains and carpeting. Fake mahogany tables and chairs were set with small lamps, each mosaic shade different from the one next to it. So much elegance, completely unknown from the outside. I spotted Noah in the back, hunched over a mug of coffee. Judging by the empty sugar and creamer packets, he’d been waiting and drinking for a while. I bypassed the waitress and dashed over to his table, red-faced from both running and embarrassment. He looked up and a grin lit his face.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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