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“But the line—”
“Screw the line,” my date smirked. “We already have a table waiting.”
Sixteen
HOLLY
Lincoln spoke briefly with the maître d' before pulling me into the restaurant, where I gasped at the eclectic mix of odd yet beautiful furnishings that seemed to explode from everywhere. Dozens of Tiffany glass lamps hung from the ceiling. Ornate vases sat on Corinthian pedestals. Mirrors of all shapes and sizes lay scattered across the walls: round mirrors, funhouse mirrors — all of them adorned for the holiday with twinkling Christmas lights. The whole thing reeked of insanity, like something out of Alice in Wonderland. Yet even the chaos was just as cozy, just as romantic, as it was in the movie.
We were led past crowds of laughing, merry people sitting at round tables until finally I knew where we were. When the hostess pointed downward at our two empty seats, I was too stunned for words.
“The Star Table,” the slender man announced proudly. He laid down two comically oversized menus. “Enjoy!”
Lincoln held my chair out for me, but I wasn’t sitting down. I was still standing there, hands over my mouth, taking the whole thing in.
“This… this is…”
“The table they sat at in the movie,” Lincoln smiled. “Yes.”
I glanced down at the little round table set against a tiny, unlit fireplace. The positioning was the same. The chairs were same. It was unreal.
“H—How did you—”
“I do work for the owner,” Lincoln explained. “Three different campaigns so far — other restaurants, not this one. I’ve also played racquetball with him on certain weekends.” He sighed. “Not for a while though. Too busy.”
A patron bumped into my date from behind, jostling him. He was still holding my chair out.
“Oh! Sorry!”
I slid into the same seat Kate Beckinsale sat in. Lincoln slid into John Cusack’s. The movie was my favorite of all time, and yes, I’d come here before to see the place from the outside. But there had always been a line. I’d never even tried to get inside.
“This is unreal,” I breathed. “Like living out a fantasy, or...”
“Or a romantic movie!” Lincoln laughed, handing me a menu. “Congratulations. You’re starring in your o
wn rom-com.”
I beamed at him as I took the giant piece of laminated plastic. “You’re starring in it too, you know.”
“Oh, I know.”
As far as food went, the restaurant was limited. It was more of a coffeehouse and dessert shop, really. Luckily we were hungry enough that it didn’t matter. It wasn’t long before we were diving into hot soup and blue corn nachos, greedily devouring everything down to the porcelain white plates. I glanced up at Lincoln and laughed.
“You have a little bit of… on the corner of your…” I reached out and wiped the edge of his goatee. “There you go.”
He grinned back and caught my hand in his. It was warm and strong. Our eyes met, and for a moment he held my fingers against his face.
“Thanks.”
It was a long moment, and full of meaning. Somewhere under the table, I felt my stomach do a sexy backflip.
“I can’t believe you’re eating New England clam chowder here in Manhattan,” I teased.
“Why?”
“I dunno. It seems sacrilegious.”
I was distracting myself. Trying to break the tension. But Lincoln’s eyes held me prisoner, even as he shrugged one big shoulder.
