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Okay, now I’m pissed. There’s usually camaraderie between us service staff, united in our position way down the totem pole. But clearly, not with this girl tonight. I plant my feet more firmly. “I’m afraid I can’t leave without delivering the cake.”
“And I can’t allow you into the establishment without a reservation.”
We stare in a quiet standoff for another moment.
“Is this going to take a while?” A voice comes from behind me. An attractive, stylish couple is standing there, waiting for their turn. “We have a reservation,” the blonde woman adds. “And we’re on the clock for the babysitter. We could go take them the cake if you need,” she adds, shooting me a friendly smile.
“I have to check with my manager.” The hostess flounces off, and I sigh.
“Thanks all the same,” I tell the woman—and then stop dead when I see the guy behind her, scrolling on his phone.
Because I know that man.
Well, he was a boy when I saw him last, but it’s definitely him. Same tousled brown hair, same melting chocolate eyes. Same ability to make my heart lurch in my chest, damn him.
Charlie Fox.
I sat beside him for two years, as lab partners in the science classes he had to re-do for graduation. He was Mr. High School, and I was Literally No One, but he was always friendly enough, cracking jokes and asking about my weekend. Yes, technically, I made stuff up sometimes—Oh, I just hung out with my friends. (Who were fictional and on the CW.) But Charlie listened to my answers and told stories of his weekends, (with his real and actual friends), and was generally the dreamboat Mr. Popular who set all our hearts aflutter in unrequited longing.
Mine most definitely included.
And now here he is, ten feet away and ten years later. And of course, he looks unfairly, ridiculously good, while I’m standing here in my glitter-smeared laundry-day pants, with sprinted-through-the-city-humidity hair.
I stifle a silent groan. This would be funny—if it was happening to anyone else. I could have run into Charlie Fox last week, on my way to a first date (which was cringeworthy) in a fantastic black dress (which was crushworthy), but no. Nope! My life is not like that. My life is this: Dumped-by-a-BF-and-a-BFF personal assistant, wearing cleaning-the-house clothes and holding a ridiculous cake. Damn this chic, minimalist restaurant for not having a Grecian column or large Ficus that I can hide behind.
Then Charlie looks up. I feel an embarrassed heat rush over me, just like I’m back in bio lab. A more reliable part of my brain yells:Turn away! Instead, I blurt out, “Hey.”
He gives a nod and says, “Hey, how are ya?”
“Oh, fine. I had no idea you lived in the city! What have you been up to? I haven’t seen anyone around, although I’m guessing a bunch of people moved here. You know, the Big Apple, greatest city in the world!”
“Uhh…” Charlie looks confused, and not just because I’m babbling like a crazy person. “That’s… Great.”
And then I realize to my horror, he has no idea who I am. He met my eyes because I was staring at him.Hey, how are yawas a flat, rhetorical question to a stranger.
He doesn’t recognize me at all.
Of course he doesn’t. Who would? I was invisible in high school. Just like I am now.
My stomach sinks to the floor.
His date looks between us, just as confused. She has blond hair swept into a loose, elegant braid, wearing an amazing blue silk dress I’d kill to own. Of course Charlie has graduated from dating student theatre stars and cheerleaders to squiring plain old goddesses. “Do you two know each other?”
“No, no,” I lie, laughing at myself. My whole body is pulsing with embarrassment, the kind I thought I left in my teen years. “Sorry. You look like someone from my hometown.”
“Oh? Where are you from?” Charlie asks.
Indianapolis suburbs, pal. Same as you.
“Middle of nowhere,” I assure him. My heart is slamming against my chest. Every cell in my body is begging me to stop interacting with Charlie Fox. With every human in this city! Just go home and burrow.
Fortunately, the hostess returns with a curt nod. “Straight back and to the left.”
“Appreciate it,” I say, with all the dignity I can muster. Behind me, I hear the words, “Fox for two.”
Striding back toward Bret the Brat, I try to hold my head high. At least I’m ending my day with a win—if you can call my cake-wrangling that.
Which I’ll choose to do.
