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He didn’t even look at the board. “K. Follow me.”
I followed him and thought about my first job, also as a restaurant hostess, and what my manager would have done if I had said “K” in response to a customer’s statement. Diane Rutledge had been a screamer. I would have been yanked into the kitchen, dressed down in front of the cooking staff, then tossed back into the restaurant with orders to wrap silverware until my hands were numb.
The kid did, at least, pull out my chair. I sank into it with a pleased sigh.
“Long day?” Easton asked.
“Good day.” I unrolled the silverware and put the napkin across my lap. “You?”
“Slow. No money from Nicole yet. I met with a Heats player, but I don’t think anything is going to happen there. He’s meeting with David Sax on Monday.”
David Sax. The kiss of death and ball-sucker of all athletes. Not literally, but we liked to say it when he stole a client from Easton. It helped ease the pain of the fact that Sax was likely clueless Easton even existed.
“I’m surprised Nicole hasn’t moved anything over yet. Have you talked to her?” I heard the nagging side of me kick into gear, the side that wanted to drill him on thinking positively, following up with his prospects via email, and working his center of influence. I confronted that side and forced her down my throat. No more questions, I promised myself. Just enjoy yourself.
“I’ve spoken with her every day since the tennis event. She’s non-committal.” He sighed. “I feel like I’m a vulture, but at the same time, I don’t have the energy to listen to her talk about her day when all I really need to know is if she’s wasting my fucking time.”
“Every day?” I frowned. “For how long?”
“Ten, fifteen minutes.”
“E, that’s way too much contact for her not have pulled the trigger.”
“I know. But I need that deposit. I haven’t brought in a new client since March.”
A fact I was painfully aware of. I closed my menu and pushed it to the side. “She’s a big girl. Be upfront and ask her when she is going to move over some of her funds.” So much for swallowing the nag.
“I have asked her.” He scowled and I could feel the turn of the conversation hovering in the half-empty room. “She won’t give me a straight answer.”
“Maybe you could bring her a specific investment opportunity.” Okay, there. That was it. I would shut my mouth after that one. I mentally locked my lips up and threw away the key.
He met my eyes and the corner of his mouth crooked up. “Okay. Any other advice?”
“You should wear that shirt more. You look delicious in it.”
“You should take that dress off. It’s covering up all of your best parts.” He grinned.
“I’m not sure the restaurant would be okay with that.”
The restaurant picked that moment to interrupt, a lanky waiter approaching with a crooked bowtie and the same dull expression that the host had carried. Maybe they all got high together just before work. I listened politely as he rattled through a list of specials, then ordered the same thing I always got—the steak medallions, medium rare, dry baked potato on the side.
Easton ordered the yellowtail fettuccine, then passed back his menu and gave me a wry grin. “Remember post-game dinners?”
Of course I did. He would get the bone-in filet topped with lobster. We’d pick through a smorgasbord of appetizers while sipping wine flights. Dessert was an afterthought but paired with a sweet wine or spiked coffee, our long meal tended to by three attentive waiters who were rewarded handsomely with an eye-popping tip.
We had lived large and recklessly and had absolutely nothing to show for it but blurred, half-drunk memories. I took a sip of water and pretended it was wine. “I miss the lobster.”
“I’ll catch some for you,” he promised. “We’ll drive down to Marathon for mini-season.”
We wouldn’t, but I still smiled at the thought. Maybe we would. Maybe there’d be a cheap hotel rate online, and we’d actually find our fins and we’d dive and net lobsters and feast like kings.
“You know what I miss?” He settled back in his chair and played with the setting of his silverware. “Guthrie’s nights.”
“Aw.” I propped an elbow on the table and rested my chin on the pad of my hand. “Me too. God, I’d kill for a Gut-box right now.” The greasy fried chicken fingers, paired with crinkle fries and an ice-cold coke… there hadn’t been a better meal in Tallahassee at 3am.
“Remember our list?”
“Of course. I still have it somewhere. I remember reading it on our wedding day.” I had kept the smudged page, folded into quarters, Easton’s cramped handwriting in neat rows down the page.
Elle & Easton’s List of Happy Things
