Nancy Warren - Her Valentine Fantasy

“Where’s the bathroom?” he asked Sam, who pointed the way. Guy already had his cell phone out before he’d gone three steps.

Which left Beauty alone with no bore. He stepped up to the table. How can you stand that douche? is what he wanted to say. What actually came out of his mouth was, “How are you enjoying your evening?” As he spoke, he picked up the bottle of wine and topped off her glass.

“The food is excellent,” she said leaving out any mention of her date. And who wouldn’t? “What did the chef put in the sauce over those scallops?”

He shook his head. “If he told me, he’d have to kill me.”

When she laughed he felt that energy again, drawing him in. “Well, please tell him how much I enjoyed them.” She glanced around, “The decor is amazing, too. Contemporary, but not cold and hard like some restaurants are. You know, all concrete and steel and glass?”

He nodded. Recalling how he’d said practically that very same thing to his designer.

“This place feels warm and relaxed while still modern.” She looked around again with an almost professional eye. “And it’s a good size for functions.”

He wondered if she was a restaurant critic, but he knew all the local ones. She could be from out of town, but nah, critics ordered a bunch of stuff and always tasted everything their companion ordered. No way she was a critic.

He should move on but no one in his section seemed to need him. He said, “First time here?”

“Yes.”

If he caught one of his staff getting too personal with a customer, he’d have some choice words to deliver. He couldn’t stop himself asking, “First date?”

Her eyes widened. “Yes. How did you know?”

Everything from body language to her guy running off to the men’s room with his cell phone in hand were pretty big clues. But he only said, “You get a feel for these things.”

She surveyed the room. “You mean you can tell what’s between people you’ve never even seen before from the way they behave in a restaurant?”

“Not always, but yeah, sometimes.” He glanced around himself. “Those two? At the table by the window, on your left.” He indicated his head so he wasn’t pointing. Waited until she had them in her sights and nodded. “They just got engaged. Watch her. See how she keeps lifting her left hand? Looks like Tourette’s but really she’s watching the ring on her finger. See how shiny it is? Barely worn.”

“Wow.” She watched for a moment and grinned. “Not Tourette’s exactly, although she’s doing a lot with her left hand. And I don’t think she’s left-handed.”

“You’re catching on.”

And while she was busy watching other customers, he had a chance to watch her. Her pretty face, those big eyes that were studying the other diners. She turned back.

“Okay, what’s the story on the older couple beside the wall of water?”

He followed her gaze. Saw a miserable-looking pair who were barely speaking to each other. Their clothes were inexpensive and it seemed as though they’d be much happier dining at home or at a family restaurant. He watched the body language for a moment.

“Wedding anniversary. Probably twenty-fifth or thirtieth. My guess is that somebody gave them a gift certificate here as an anniversary present when they’d have preferred a new set of towels. They don’t like fancy food, think fine dining is a waste of hard-earned money and, after all these years being married, don’t have much left to say to each other.”

“Depressing. But believable.”

“I’m only telling you what I guess. I could be wrong. Maybe normally they’re the happiest couple in town, but they just buried Grandma.”

“Your first story seems more real.” She looked around some more. “Okay, what about the foursome in the middle of the room. Older couple and a younger couple?”

He barely glanced at the table in question. “Easy. He’s a rich business guy, very successful. He and the wife spend six weeks a year golfing in Palm Springs. That’s their only daughter. The young guy is the boyfriend the parents don’t think is good enough.”

“Who are you, Sherlock Holmes?”

He grinned at her. “Nope. They’re regulars.”

She laughed, enjoying his teasing.

He said, “You’re not the only one not having the greatest evening.”

She ran a finger around the stem of her wineglass, which he found ridiculously sexy. “I should have made it a coffee. Dinner’s too much of a commitment for a first date.”

“I agree. I always go with the coffee.”

She looked up. “Oh, are you—” Then she stopped herself.

“Single?” He finished her question for her in the direction he hoped it had been headed. “Yeah. I am.”

He wanted to say something more. Ask her out?

And then the douche returned. Since Sam was hanging around the table, he said, “Allow me to tempt you with Chef’s special dessert tonight. He’s calling it Valentine Fantasy. It’s made with Valrhona chocolate and fresh cream and a hint of raspberry. He says it tastes like sex.” Because he couldn’t help himself—it was that iron filing thing again—he caught her eye when he said that and experienced a sudden, hot surge of lust.

She held his gaze and he instinctively knew she was feeling the sizzle, too. Her voice was low and sexy. “I’ve always thought that if sex had a flavor it would be chocolate.”

And in that second a vision of her, naked and wet while he teased her with chocolate, took him so strongly he stopped breathing.

He wasn’t supposed to crush on the customers, he reminded himself as he took their orders, the Fantasy for her, and an overpriced crème brûlée that they kept on the menu for dickheads like her date.

* * *

Oh, no, Sam thought when he next swung out of the kitchen, the guy at table 12 was pulling out his smartphone again. Seriously?

Dude, no.

Not the fake text thing, he begged silently. Don’t do this to that sweet, sexy woman. But sure enough, bad first-date guy made a pantomime of shock, then distress. Sam could see his lips moving, saying something like, “Emergency, gotta go.” He practically leaped from his seat, putting his hand up to his ear, thumb and baby finger extended in an I’ll call you gesture. And then he charged out of the restaurant like his ass was on fire.

Sam would have bet his life savings that bad first date had set up the fake emergency when he was in the john. Classy.

As much he was glad to see the back of the guy, Sam saw two problems with his fast exit. First, he’d left a gorgeous, hot chick sitting by herself in a busy restaurant on a Friday night before she’d got to dessert. Second, he’d ditched her with the bill.

Sam hoped he was as nice as the next guy, but he was running a business. He turned tail and grabbed a server’s assistant. “Get the bill prepared for table 12 right away. But don’t put the desserts on it.” He finished delivering meals to table 3 and then grabbed the bill, already slipped into one of the black folders with the stylized B logo on the front and immediately walked to table 12.

“Will he be back?” he asked the lone woman at the table.

“God, I hope not.” She acted as if her date running out on her hadn’t bothered her at all, but he swore he could detect a hint of hurt in the depths of her clear gray eyes.

“Still want your dessert?”

She shook her head. Then she glanced at where her date had been sitting and Sam saw the moment she registered that he’d stiffed her for dinner. With a small sigh, she said, “I’ll just take the bill.”

He dropped the folder on the table, then, because it was his restaurant and what the hell, said, “We keep a car and driver. Some of our regulars like the service. He’d be happy to drive you home.”