by Shen, L. J.
“I’m not sure. Dude has a pager, though.” I roll silverware in freshly dried linen napkins that smell faintly like bleach and the ever-pervasive odor of the kitchen.
“Wow. That’s so last century.”
“Right? Who uses pagers nowadays? Other than firemen and pimps.” We both stop rolling silverware to look at each other.
“He’s definitely not a firefighter. His hands are too nice.”
“True. And who puts fires out in a suit?” Elodie shrugs. “Maybe he deals with escorts?”
“That’s a nice term for high-class prostitution.”
It still doesn’t explain the old leather satchel. What is he hiding in there, lube and condoms?
I’m about to deliver the bill to the table when another woman strolls through the restaurant and out onto the terrace. And, of course, she goes straight to Ho. No Race, because clearly this dude is a high-class player.
“Geez, that other woman has been gone for what? Three minutes max?” I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s stupidly attractive and must know it, and believes he’s above things like honesty, fidelity, and monogamy.
As reprehensible as it is, I’d still probably do him just so I could see what his face looks like when he climaxes out of sheer morbid curiosity. And having the memory until I go senile.
I’m obligated to check on the table, and this new woman who’s joined Ho. I saunter over and ask if I can get either of them something to drink. This woman also has an accent, but I think it might be Scottish.
“Coffee and a dessert?” Ho asks the stain on my shirt.
“I’ll just have a coffee, black, please,” the woman responds, not bothering to look up from her phone. Possibly scheduling her next escort service call.
“One coffee, black.” Like her soul.
“Shall I bring you a dessert menu?” I arch a brow at Ho, annoyed that I still find him hopelessly sexy despite the fact that he’s clearly a womanizer, a player, and very possibly a pimp.
“I don’t think that’s necessary. Tell me, what’s your favorite dessert?” He leans forward, looking into my eyes now.
“My favorite?” I parrot and glance at the dark-haired Barbie sitting across from him, not even bothering to ogle him even a little. He’s definitely her pimp, I decide.
“Yes, Reggie, what’s your favorite indulgence?”
His date glances up briefly and smirks before returning to her phone.
What the hell is going on here?
“The chocolate pot de crème, I guess.”
“Then that’s what I’ll have, and an espresso.” He winks, which I take as a sign of dismissal.
Once their coffees and Ho’s dessert are on the table, I leave them alone to talk about what pimps and escorts discuss over coffee. Venereal diseases, maybe? Special sales?
Buy one hour with Scottish Barbie, gets the French hottie for half-price!
Twenty minutes later, Dark-haired Scottish Barbie glides through the restaurant and out the door. I poke my head around the corner to check on Ho and see if he needs me to bring him the bill for his back-to-back escort service meetings. He’s standing, pager in hand, frown firmly in place. Withdrawing his wallet from his pocket, he tosses a handful of bills onto the table, shoulders his satchel, and hops the freaking wrought iron fence with impressive grace, landing on the cobblestone sidewalk.
And then he’s off and running like the devil is at his feet.
I rush out to the terrace, searching the busy afternoon street for his retreating form, but he’s already been swallowed up by the crowd.
I nab the money from the table before someone else can, but when I ring up the bill, it turns out he didn’t leave enough to cover it. I’m three freaking euros short. Sonofa-hot-bitch.
Ho stiffed me, and not just on the tip.
Never trust a pimp.
2
Horace
Let’s get one thing out of the way—I’m not that guy.
First of all, I would dismember my own limbs before leaving a place without tipping—not literally, of course. I did, in fact, leave a restaurant without tipping, but I knew I was coming back to make up for it as soon as my work crisis was under control.
Second of all, I’m not the type of bloke to date two women at the same time, on the same day.
Truth be told, I’m not the type of bloke to date at all. An eternal bachelor—or a devilish rake, as my mother feels inclined to call me—I prefer my women like my dentist: infrequent, clean, and with extensive knowledge about how to work a mouth.
These two dates, however, were my humoring my little sister, Eugena—yes, I am not the only person in the family to be saddled with a libido-killing name.
My twenty-four-year-old sibling is currently backpacking through Asia and bumped into a fortune teller in Thailand who told her that I, her only brother, was going to meet the love of my life today. December twenty-third.
Coincidentally, December twenty-third also happens to be Eugena’s birthday. This time, she didn’t ask for an Apple watch, an obscenely expensive perfume, or a Hemsworth brother—side note: I do not condone human trafficking in any way or form and turned her down on the spot. She simply asked that I would let her do her research and set me up with a date, because the fortune teller was, as she put it, “quite mental, but surprisingly eloquent”.
Reluctantly, I agreed.
I knew nothing would come of it. I’m leaving Paris in two weeks, when my lease finishes and the Paris branch of my company, Horace at Bamfield Holdings, is officially on its feet. I cannot wait to move back to my Knightsbridge flat. I miss the Indian food down the block, my running route, and even the doorman, Joe.
At any rate, Eugie ended up torn between two lasses she found on a dating site for young, attractive professionals. I took one for the team and agreed to meet them both.
An unsung saint?—Yes, I guess you could call me that.
Needless to say, both dates were complete disasters.
The French model was a fantastic bore. The type we should recruit to torture terrorists with during difficult investigations: “Let me tell you a bit more about my collection of shoes”. “Honestly, darling, unless they are ten-inch heels and the only thing you are wearing in the bedroom, I am entirely uninterested”.
The Scottish geologist, while interesting, was bizarre. She explained to me in detail why the Loch Ness Monster exists, and as soon as she realized that I was not going to donate to her GoFundMe in her quest to find the monster, she buggered off.
Ironically enough, I did find a person of interest in that little corner café. A quirky, albeit slightly unhinged, American waitress who looked and talked like she was recently purged from a ’90s romantic comedy. Think Jennifer Aniston’s comic timing paired with Julia Roberts’ megawatt smile.
I’m only slightly embarrassed to admit that I’ve had a long-standing love for both actresses, particularly Aniston circa Friends era. Add to that Eugie’s eerily specific reference to a café terrace and Pretty Woman—the latter of which I took great offense to at the time—and I found myself studying the waitress rather than paying attention to either of my dates.
Even the suspicious stain on her shirt—the shape of a penis—and the dog pee that adorned her foot didn’t dim her shine. She radiated like a lighthouse. Warm, soft, and blissfully familiar for a stranger. Every time she spoke, it felt like I missed her laughter, her words, her thoughts, which made me suspect I suffered from a slight concussion. Why else would I miss someone I’d never previously met?
Until today I’d always found the idea of kismet to be highly ridiculous. People don’t fall hopelessly in love with someone they’ve only exchanged a handful of sentences with—especially considering I’ve been on a date with not one, but two other women. But now I’m not so sure, because the moment our gazes met it felt very much like the world had narrowed down to just her. A rare jewel amidst the mundane. I can’t explain it in a way that sounds even remotely sane, but I felt an overwhelming compulsion to k
now her.
I patiently waited for the Scottish lass to leave so I could ask for Reggie’s number, but then I received a message saying that the British prime minister had quit and the market crashed. I had to dash back to the office to make sure my clients’ portfolios didn’t go down the shitters with it.
Now here I am four hours later, back in Le Petit Cafe, elbowing my way through the afternoon crowd of exhausted office folk, jaded Tinder dates, and chain-smoking aspiring poets. I find the first available person who works here and tug at the hem of her apron impatiently. She swivels in her UGG boots—not the checked Vans I longed for—her face heart-shaped, her blonde ponytail swinging from side to side.
Not the same bewitching strawberry-light-brown hair I wanted to roll between my fingers.
Her lips are not as pillowy, wide, and full, and her eyes aren’t a brilliant shade of light sapphire.
“Stingy British Dude!” she greets in an Aussie accent. “What brings you here twice in one day? Forgot your coupons?”
I run a hand through my hair, suddenly agitated with how badly I long to see a complete stranger.
“The American girl. Reggie? Is she still here?”
The Aussie waitress tsks and twists one corner of her mouth, clucking her tongue.
“She got out ten minutes ago. Our shift is over. I’m just waiting for my food.”
Bullocks. I contemplate asking for Reggie’s work schedule, before realizing how terribly creepy that sounds. Perhaps coming by tomorrow would be less awkward.
I decide that whatever I choose to do, I need to take care of the tip first. Leaving her three euros short was bad form—I did the math in my head and knew I hadn’t covered the bill even without seeing it. Shoving my hand into my front pocket, I produce my wallet and pluck out a twenty euro bill, handing it to the Aussie girl.
“What’s this?”
“Just the tip.”
“That’s what he said,” Aussie Lass grins, pocketing the money in her black apron. “Do you always stiff your service industry professional?”
“Only when the European stock market is thrown into turmoil.”
“Touché, mate.”
There’s silence. She mulls something over, her teeth sinking into her lower lip, then juts her chin toward the park across the street. “You know, she enjoys getting intoxicated publicly while popping Lactaids and eating camembert cheese she can’t afford in the park after her shifts are over.”
“It’s bloody freezing.”
She shrugs. “Doesn’t seem to bother her. She’s from Minnesota; it’s colder than the top of Everest in the winter from what she tells me. Maybe this is like a balmy spring day for her? Anyway, you might still catch her if you—”
I don’t even wait for her to finish the sentence before I dash out.
Sure enough, I find Reggie in the park, situated close to a festively decorated, leafless tree, wearing a giant parka, wool cap, scarf, and mitts. Her breath leaves her in lazy white puffs as she lies on a checkered white and red blanket, drinking canned wine barefoot while nodding her head with AirPods, through which her music seeps out. I recognize The Cure’s “Pictures of You”. She immediately gets bumped up from a love interest to a deity.
I squat down, watching her head swinging back and forth with her eyes closed. When she pops them open, patting the blanket for another piece of cheese, a scream rips from her mouth. I realize belatedly that I am literally three inches from her face.
“What the heck! Ho? Is that you?”
“Excuse me?” I blink.
“Your name is Ho.” She tears the AirPods from her ears, tossing them onto her blanket. I am behind an unspoken line—the edge of her blanket—on the dark grass that smells faintly of rain and earth and dog urine. I briefly wonder how much of it comes from the park and how much of it is from her assaulted leg.
“Horace,” I correct. “And you’re Reggie.”
I don’t know why I tell her this. I’m sure she is well aware of her own name.
“Regina,” she waves her hand dismissively, as you do when you confess a particularly shameful vice, “but everyone calls me Reggie.”
“I’m sorry I dashed without leaving a tip, Reggie.” I peer into her face, hoping to find the same wild fascination and mischievous amusement I saw in her while I was on my disastrous dates. Every time I chanced a look at her, she gave me an amusing, quirked eyebrow look that said, Is this really your life? To which I wanted to reply, Not even remotely.
So far she maintains a blank, sober expression. She’s on guard off-shift. And why wouldn’t she be? I bloody came after her like a savage.
“I had an emergency at work, but here.” I toss another twenty euros between us, because explaining I left a tip with her Aussie mate seems clumsy and about as gentlemanly as depriving a senior citizen of a seat on the tube.
“Oh, how…” She picks up the note, watching it in confusion. “Romantic?”
“I can be romantic,” I assure her.
“You definitely seem to have plenty of experience,” she mutters. I guess I deserve that.
“Let me buy you a drink.” I flash her an apologetic smile. Things can only improve in the romance department from our first impression, and a two-week fling with a gorgeous American is not the worst thing that could happen to me before leaving for London. Bonus points: I’ll be able to tell Eugie that I made an effort in the women’s department, and it won’t even be a lie.
“I don’t know, can you?” Reggie wonders aloud, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “Your dating hobby borderlines on addiction. This will be your third date today, if I accept.” She makes air quotes when she says the word date. “Can you support this kind of habit? Gambling seems more economical.”
I let out a laugh. It’s more of a snort, really, shaking my head.
“I’m not addicted to dates.”
“Are you a masochist then?” she asks.
I shake my head again.“I don’t normally date.”
“Snap, called it. You’re a pimp.” Her eyes widen. They glitter like rare diamonds. Blue dusted with golden flakes, like a sunset-hued sky when the stars peek just before nightfall.
Jesus, mate. She is turning you into a wuss and you haven’t even slept with her yet.
Wait.
A pimp?
“Did you just call me a pimp?” My quads are burning from squatting at her eye level, but giving up is not an option. She nods.
“Why else would you have a pager, meet with attractive women, wear a suit, and have cash handy, which you happily throw at unassuming women?” Her eyebrows dart to her hairline.
“Because I’m a businessman,” I deadpan. “Who was forced to go on dates to pacify his very bossy younger sister.”
“Oh.” She cocks her head sideways. “I guess I should’ve considered that.”
“It was Eugie’s birthday wish that I’d try to meet a woman today. Apparently, today is the day I’m supposed to meet the love of my life.”
“Then what are you doing here, talking to me? You better get on that, because both those dates died prematurely,” she says so seriously, I don’t know if I should laugh or be offended.
Figuring I am destined to squat on the grass until the next millennium if it is up to Reggie, I make the executive decision to sit on the edge of her blanket. She watches me, her pretty mouth parted and ready to protest, but lo and behold, she doesn’t object.
“Doing a semester in Paris?” I guess.
She shrugs. “Kind of.”
“Quite sure it is a yes or no question.”
“No then, but people think that I am. Hence the kind of.”
Interesting. I’m putting the picture of her circumstances, of her, together piece by piece, gluing them clumsily, eager to learn more.
“Running away from your family?”
“Nope.”
“Abusive boyfriend?”
She rolls her eyes. “Please.”
I grin. I have a feeling Reggie could hold her own in
a UFC ring.
No, it wasn’t fear that brought her here. I tilt my head, examining her face, which I can’t seem to look away from.
“What then?” I ask.
“That’s it? You expect me to just give you the ins and outs, flat out? Are you not going to wine and dine me first? At least the dates got brunch out of it.”
“Henrietta just got a coffee out of it,” I protest.
“Horace and Henrietta. Are you sure you don’t want to give her a chance? Your names are equally ridiculous.”
I laugh. “No, thank you. Back to the matter at hand, I promise to feed you for the next week if you tell me,” I say without missing a beat. “Two weeks, if you tell the entire truth without withholding information.”
Usually I’m a top-notch negotiator, but I have a feeling I’d willingly lose all my properties and a good amount of my savings when it comes to this girl. She scrunches her nose adorably, thinking it through.
“Come on,” I coax. “I have two weeks left in this city. It’s not like we would see each other again.” My lease is up come the new year, so the timing is better than ideal for a holiday fling.
Her blue-golden-sunset-starred eyes dart up to meet mine, and I will my pulse to calm the eff down. “I’m looking for my dad,” she admits in a soft whisper.
“Oh?” I ask evenly, sitting back. She starts to collect her AirPods, basket with cheese and grapes, and her little purse. I hit a nerve.
“It’s not going super well, to be honest. I only have his name, and I can’t find him anywhere. I’d hire a private investigator, but the truth is, despite the public assumption that we part-time waitresses are balling, I don’t have a ton of extra cash lying around, so the search has been slow-going.”
I immediately want to pay for the private investigator.
I also immediately want to punch myself square in the bullocks for wanting to suggest that, because the sugar daddy vibes are already strong, and Reggie would likely get offended if I bring it up.
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Twenty-three. You?”