“Oh, okay,” the waiter replies. “Me neither.”
With a crass grin that reveals he’s as bad at joke-telling as me, he places down a setting for one on a table that butts up with the corridor leading to the washrooms. Although I could sit out of the firing line, I take a seat in the chair that infringes the walkway. It gives me an uninterrupted view of the swinging door that separates the kitchen from the main dining area. It’s the perfect spot for me to implement stage two of my ruse—woo Demi Petretti.
“Can I start you off with a drink?” the server asks, not put-off by my unusual seating request.
I issue my thanks for his coolness with a smile. “Water will be great, thank you.”
He jots down my order like he’ll forget it between here and the kitchen before he commences rattling off the meals customers ignore the dirtiness of the Petretti name to feast on each day.
“What is the sous-chef’s special today?” I interrupt, stopping him partway through a list far too long to run through for each customer. I didn’t lie when I told Demi I’ve dined here every second day the past two months. I’m well-rehearsed on the standard menu, but ‘standard’ isn’t what I want. I’m here for the ‘special dish’ only a handful of patrons are lucky enough to secure.
“I’m not sure,” the waiter replies, aware of what I’m asking but uneased by my request. “She wasn’t rostered on today. She only arrived thirty minutes ago. I could ask her if you’d like?”
“If you could, that would be great.” I swallow to clear the stupid-ass nerves in my throat before adding, “Or perhaps she could tell me what her creation will be…in person?”
“Oh.” He pauses, smiles, then starts again. “I see.”
He sees all right—a sucker in the making. His brow isn’t cocked for no reason. I won’t get anywhere near the ‘Petretti special’ without handing over some coin, and if the dollar signs flashing in his eyes are anything to go by, a couple of dollar bills won’t cut the mustard.
While grumbling about how my glass of water better be free, I dig a twenty out of my wallet before slipping it into his hand.
“Sous-chef will be right out,” he says, all pompous like.
Thirty seconds later, Demi fills his spot. “Maddox,” she stammers out like I’m a mirage.
As her eyes widen in shock, they scan the restaurant. I can’t confirm who she’s seeking, but I can assume. The dread on her face is very telling, much less the sweat beating on her brow. It’s the same expression that reflected in the Latin restaurant’s door when I carried her inside, and the very reason I requested for us to be seated at the back. Even with Hopeton being her stomping ground, she isn’t comfortable here. It fuels my eagerness to discover why that is.
When Demi fails to find any sign of her uncle or the men he regularly dines with, her eyes return to me. “What are you doing here? You just ate.” Her dark brows pull together as an uneasy grin raises her cheeks. “And how did you know I’d be here? I wasn’t rostered to work today.”
“One, I’m always up for more food, especially if it is delicious as the meals you’ve been creating.” Her ghost-like smile is potent enough to slay a man. “And two, you took a left on 22ndStreet. If you were going home, you would have turned right.” I shrug like it’s no big deal I know all her favorite haunts. It isn’t hard. She’s a creature of habit. She’s either at the gym, home, or here.
“Right.” She looks torn between smiling and grimacing. “So I need to add stalking to your list of talents? Good to know.”
Her facial expression settles on relieved a few seconds later. I want to say it’s compliments to my undeniable charisma. Unfortunately, that would be a lie. All the credit belongs to the waiter. He didn’t just fill my glass with room temperature water when he returned to my table to take my order, he also advised Demi her uncle’s flight has been delayed until tomorrow, so she’ll need to stay until closing tonight.
Most people scowl when lumped with the late shift. Demi almost bursts with excitement.
“Thank you, Ty.” Although Ty looks on the verge of cracking a fat over Demi’s gratitude, I act ignorant to the admired twinkle in his eyes. Her words may have been for him, but her eyes are solely mine. “Do you really want to know what tonight’s special will be?”
I’m as stuffed as a turkey at Thanksgiving, but I’ll force down anything she’s offering if it keeps her looking at me the way she is.
Well, except for one thing.
“It isn’t snails again, is it?”
I thought Demi’s light eyes and dark hair combination was her greatest asset, but her smile makes a quick liar out of me. “Not tonight. I’m saving them for taco Tuesday. If you only want to spend two dollars on a taco, you should anticipate slugs in your meal.”
“Way to ruin a good feed.”
Her smile doubles. It’s almost as large as mine. “They deserve it.”
The mood shifts from playful to serious when I can’t hold back my comment. “I’m sure they do.”
Four little words shouldn’t be so impacting, but they force our exchange into a prolonged stretch of silence. I wouldn’t necessarily say it is uncomfortable. It’s more promising than disheartening.
I’m not claiming to know all her secrets.
I am merely letting her know I’m okay with her having them.
