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He orders a glass of Perrier with one slice of lime, no lemon. Impossibly, he makes Perrier sound even more posh than it is in his sexy British accent.
Before I check on the rest of my tables, I rush to my locker in search of a spare pair of shoes, or socks, or anything that I could wear in place of the damp sock-shoe combo I have going on. Fortunately, I have a pair of checked Vans, AKA my street shoes, which are not ideal for serving tables, but are 100% dog pee-free. I also have to go sockless, which I hate, but again, better than the alternative.
Once I finish washing my hands, I return to the dining room in time to see Hottie British Man stand to greet his lunch date. “Of course, she’s gorgeous,” I mutter, taking in her willowy frame, luxurious brunette hair, and mile-long legs, clad in heels I wouldn’t be able to stand in, let alone walk. My toes wiggle involuntarily in my Vans as I follow her movements with my gaze.
I bet this guy has dates lined up every damn night of the week. I’m annoyed at myself that I’d like to be one of those dates. I’m also annoyed that if offered the chance, I’d go out with him despite knowing I’d be one of many, many women to hang on his every syllable. I have to assume he has an ego the size of Canada. I don’t know how someone that physically perfect wouldn’t.
I wait until he’s tucked her chair into the table and taken his seat again before I deliver the Perrier and ask if his guest would like something to drink. She orders a glass of red wine. She reaches across the table and covers his hand with hers.
“Do you already know what you’re going to order, Horace?” she asks in a sweet, French accent.
Horace? That name doesn’t fit him at all. David, Michelangelo, Davinci, even God Almighty are more suitable.
“I was thinking the special.” He slips his hand out from under hers and turns his tropical blue gaze to me. “What do you reckon, Reggie?”
For a moment I’m flummoxed as to how he knows my name, until I remember that I’m wearing a nametag—like I do every single day I work.
“The cock—” I grimace. “Croque monsieur is always quite popular.”
He smirks. “Ever tried it yourself?”
His date apparently misses the thinly veiled sexual innuendo.
“Too many carbs,” she mutters, shuddering in her little—and I mean extremely tiny—black dress. I don’t know how she can wear so little when it’s this cold, but I suppose if I was on a date with this guy, I’d probably want to show up half-naked, too, just to make the transition to fully naked that much easier.
I barely contain my eye roll. France is full of carbs. It’s baguette and cheese heaven. Keto is sacrilege here. Or at least it should be.
Horace’s date requests the salad niciose, en français, sans the potatoes, dressing, olives, anchovies, and bacon.
“So basically...just lettuce, tomatoes, and an egg?” I blink at her.
“Ahh, no egg, either.”
Horace decides on the coq au vin. Likely just as an excuse to say the word cock without being an overt perv.
Interestingly, all through lunch he keeps sneaking peeks at me. Or maybe I’m just hyperaware of him since his entire dining experience so far has been fraught with my folly.
Halfway through the meal I notice that he keeps shifting his suit jacket out of the way. At first, I think he’s checking his phone, but then I realize it’s a freaking pager.
“What do ya think’s goin’ on over there?” Elodie tips her chin in Horace’s direction as she polishes silverware.
Their meal is long finished and they’ve been sitting there for a good ten minutes. I offered them another drink, but both declined. Sexy, Skinny French Lady is gathering her purse and jacket. Horace stands and they air kiss on the cheek before she sashays out of the restaurant.
“I’m not sure. Dude has a pager, though.” I roll silverware in freshly dried linen napkins that smell faintly like bleach and the ever-pervasive odor of the kitchen.
“Wow. That’s so last century.”
“Right? Who uses pagers nowadays? Other than firemen and pimps.” We both stop rolling silverware to look at each other.
“He’s definitely not a firefighter. His hands are too nice.”
“True. And who puts fires out in a suit?” Elodie shrugs. “Maybe he deals with escorts?”
“That’s a nice term for high-class prostitution.”
It still doesn’t explain the old leather satchel. What is he hiding in there, lube and condoms?
I’m about to deliver the bill to the table when another woman strolls through the restaurant and out onto the terrace. And, of course, she goes straight to Ho. No Race, because clearly this dude is a high-class player.
