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The waiter clears his throat. “I’m, ah, not sure how to tell you this, ma’am. But we just saw your date leave.”
“Leave?” I frown. “But he hasn’t even eaten yet. Maybe he just went outside to take a call, or something.”
The waiter grimaces. “We found him, um, climbing out of the window in the mens’ bathroom. So I don’t think he plans on coming back.”
My mouth falls open. “Excuse me?”
“He paid the bill!” He says brightly, offering me the receipt. I stare at it. Somehow, that’s even worse. At least if he hadn’t paid, I could convince myself that he just came here for a free meal. Now, I know thatthe problem is me.
I stare at his plate. His stupid gold-plated carrots sparkle back at me.
“Right,” I say softly. “Okay.”
The waiter winces. “Um, do you want me to pack up your meal? I’ll throw in a dessert on the house.”
“I…” Part of me wants to say no. I’m embarrassed as Hell, but I don’t want to leave. I came here to eat dinner. I’m not going to run away just because my date went bad, for God’s sake — I’ve got more backbone than that.
I think.
Maybe not.
Luckily, before I have to make a decision, I’m interrupted.
“There’s no need for that,” a thick Northern accent says over my head. I blink as the chair opposite me is dragged out with an ear-piercing squeak, and my neighbour Zack heaves his massive, muscled body into Mike’s empty seat.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he says cheerfully, leaning over the table. I jump when he brushes his lips across my cheek, my lungs filling with his warm, honey-and-whiskey smell. “Sorry I peed for so long.” He sits back in his chair and grins at me. “Right. Back to the date. Where were we?”
***
TWO
***
LAYLA
I stare at Zack. He just winks back at me, his bright blue eyes twinkling.
Zack Harding (player nickname: Zack Hard-On) is a thirty-year-old ex-rugby player — but he looks more like a Viking. Massive arms, blonde hair usually pulled back into a man-bun, scruffy beard, and a barrel-chest the size of a fridge. He lives in the apartment opposite mine with two other guys. Since we live across the hall, we hang out all the time — which is how I know that he’s definitely not the man I am meant to be on a date with.
“Christ, man.” He shuffles a bit, then pulls a face at the waiter. “Ever think about buying a chair for us regular people? Not all of us are pipsqueaks like this lass.”
The waiter just stares at him, wide-eyed.
“Zack,” I say levelly. “What are you doing here?”
Zack looks surprised. “We’re on a date, babe. Don’t you remember?”
I roll my eyes.
The waiter looks completely flummoxed. “I’m sorry…” he trails off, looking behind him at the bathroom, then back at Zack. “Are you, um…?”
“I’m the same guy, yeah,” Zack says. “I just got really hot and buff all of a sudden. I would never abandon my gorgeous, stunning, slightly scary date.”
I kick his ankle under the table.
“No,” the waiter says hesitantly. “I mean… are you… Zack Harding?”
Zack beams. He loves being recognised in public. “Aye, the very same.”
