by Lia London
He glanced down the street one more time before ducking into the bar on the corner. The smell of well-seasoned onion rings wafted past him, coming from a tray on a saucy waitress’s shoulder.
It had to be a sports bar. Of all the kinds of eateries he could frequent, sports bars were his nemesis. Men were expected to act with barbaric simplicity, belching and cheering at other men who threw balls around for a living. Never mind that the ball-throwers earned twenty times as much money as he ever would. It wasn’t dignified. It wasn’t cultured.
And besides, he’d devoted all of his P.E. credit requirements in college to ballroom dancing instead of team sports or wrestling.
As he turned a full circle, scanning the restaurant, he could imagine his father gathering here with his bowling team buddies for a few beers. Frank had tried to get along with his father’s friends and co-workers, but he always made the mistake of answering their questions truthfully. If they asked him about his interests, it always led to a round of teasing for the sissy boy who wanted to dance and read Shakespeare.
Frank’s eyes caught Amaya sitting on a barstool, laughing at something the bartender said, and his mouth fell open
“Amaya!” Had his voice just cracked?
She turned towards him, sliding off the stool to reveal her sleek form wrapped in a stylish, shimmering blue, long-sleeved sheath dress. Cut above the knee, it would allow her the mobility to dance, if she could safely do so in the four-inch, matching heels.
“Hello, Frank. Right on time.” She held out her hand to shake, her other holding a small, black clutch. Her eyes flickered to the bartender, and they shared knowing smiles.
Had they been talking about him behind his back?
Amaya patted the bar. “Thanks, Johnnie. I appreciate you letting me wait here. I’ll be back with my friend next time.”
Frank faltered a step. Did she mean him? Did she expect him to take her for drinks in a place like this?
“Are you ready?” He held out his elbow in what he hoped passed for a courtly way. “Our reservations are for eight o’clock sharp.”
“Absolutely. We’ll be there with forty seconds to spare.” She ignored his proffered arm but allowed him to hold the door open for her, nodding at the gesture. “Thank you.”
“Thank you, and may I say you look lovely?” Though they were the right words, and he meant them sincerely, she didn’t react. Discouraged, he trained his eyes on her face, noting the subtle use of make-up. Who knew she could clean up so well?
He struggled to think of something to say. “Are you going to be able to dance in those shoes?”
“I can do it.” She met his eyes with a gentle lift to her lips.
“Impressive.”
“I figured since you’re so tall, I should make it easier on you.”
“Easier?” He raised an eyebrow. “I have partnered with women much less statuesque than yourself with no mishaps.” She would see soon enough that he could dance, too.
She blinked slowly at him. “All right, then. We should be fine.”
Frank’s gut grumbled. Already he could sense her growing disapproval. Pulling his shoulders back and lifting his chin a degree, he led her onward with resignation. Neither friendship nor romance were on the menu anyway, so he would settle for what respect he could command.
“Oh, Mr. Grumbleygut. Yes, we’ve been expecting you!” The wide-eyed maître d’ of The Arabesque stood taller and nervously brushed invisible lint from his tuxedo cuff. “Right this way. We’ve saved you the very best seat in the house.”
Amaya glanced at Frank, keeping her brow from creeping up at his aloof response to the gushing gentleman. Apparently, inspiring discomfort in others came naturally to him. The groveling platitudes the host spewed would have amused her on a sitcom, but in real life, they freaked her out.
“Would Mademoiselle prefer to face the dance floor, or the tropical aquarium?” asked the host.
“Oh, the fish are fine. I see dancers every day.” Amaya gave him her most reassuring smile as he seated her. “You’re most kind to ask.”
The man flushed with obvious relief and darted his eyes to Frank. “Will this be satisfactory, sir?”
Frank nodded, his lips pursed in the slightest frown. “Yes. It’s adequate.” He sat down and seemed to hesitate before addressing the maître d’ again. “Will you be bringing us the wine list, or is there someone else assigned to that task?”
Amaya licked her teeth behind closed lips as the man rattled off the various house favorites. Frank asked questions about bouquets and bottling years, and at last made a selection. He turned to her. “I assume that will be acceptable to you?”
She turned to the host. “Actually, if you’ll keep my ice water replenished, I’ll be fine. Thank you.”
Both men exchanged a surprised glance before the maître d’ mumbled his promise for a quick return and stepped away.
Folding her hands neatly on the edge of the table, Amaya looked squarely at Frank. “I don’t drink on the job,” she said flatly. When his lips parted in a stupefied response, she couldn’t entirely hold back the sarcasm. “I have a feeling I should be keeping my wits about me with someone as sophisticated and intelligent as you are. I can’t risk getting sloppy.”
She knew she’d hit the mark when the corner of his mouth turned down. “Are you a sloppy drunk?” he asked, concern etched in the lines of his brow.
“I’ve never been drunk in my life.” She sat perfectly straight. “And you?”
His lips twitched, and Amaya grudgingly admitted he had a cute mouth. She silently reminded herself of all the annoying men she’d played opposite in theater classes and plays. Being civil with this pompous buffoon for an evening shouldn’t be impossible.
“Aren’t you going to answer?” she coaxed.
“I don’t believe it’s relevant to the conversation.”
“We haven’t started a conversation yet. Do I get to choose the topic?” She gestured at the crystal and silver. “Or do we have to enjoy all of this finery in silence?”
“All right. What matters of great import do you wish to discuss?”
“Maybe why you talk like that.”
For a moment, he appeared taken aback, and then his spine straightened as the concierge arrived and repeated the praise of the vintage as before. Frank sniffed the cork, watched attentively as the wine flowed into his glass, and swirled it under his nose with a practiced flourish. “That will do,” he said curtly.
“And for the lady?”
Amaya placed her fingers over the top of her glass. “No, thank you. But you made it sound lovely. I’m sure it’s delicious.”
The wine concierge beamed, obviously eager to please. “Yes, it is. Did you wish for anything else?”
With a coquettish glance at Frank, she shook her head. “No, I have all I need right here. Thank you so much.”
He nodded and backed away.
Frank stared at her over the rim of his glass, poised to take a sip. “You just gave him a false impression.”
“How’s that?”
He took a slow sip, rolling the wine across his tongue before swallowing and setting the glass down. “With that little display, he probably thinks you’re in love with me.”
Amaya kept a straight face. “And wouldn’t that be a farce?”
“Indeed.”
“Almost like the farce of you being a snobby connoisseur of fine wines.”
Frank lost his placid composure. “I beg your pardon? I do know quite a bit—”
“Tell me something, Frank.” She leaned forward, her hands in her lap, her shoulders in a coy hunch. To anyone observing, she was surely telling him a lascivious secret. “Why do you put on such a show? You can’t really be like this. You’re name’s Grumbleygut, not Forbes or Kennedy. Heck, it’s not even Grumbleygut. It can’t be. That’s just too crazy. What’s your real last name?”
“You don’t need to know.”
“Well, I can hardly take you seriously when y
our name sounds like a character from a kid’s show.”
Frank frowned and downed another sip of wine. “It’s Judd.”
Amaya sat back and considered this. “Frank Judd. Now that’s a perfectly good name. Why don’t you use that? It’d suit you if you’d take off that ridiculous bowtie.”
He fingered his tie. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Who wears a bowtie without the tux?”
“Frank Grumbleygut.”
Amaya shook her head with a maternal smile. “Well, Frank Grumbleygut’s a weirdo. Can I talk to Frank Judd tonight?” She peeked over her shoulder. “I mean, when the waiters aren’t watching?”
Something flickered in his eyes, and Amaya imagined she saw a steel door unlock inside his brain. “I’d rather talk about Amaya Jefferson.”
She waved this away with a shrug. “Oh, she’s just a girl that’s been onstage since before she could read, and who recently had a fleeting debut on television, which ultimately landed her a teaching gig.”
He perked up. “Television?”
“You didn’t know?” Amaya gave a self-deprecating roll of her eyes. “I was on Who Wants to Be a Soap Star for two whole episodes.”
“You were?”
“Team Northwest.”
“And you wanted to be a soap star?”
Amaya laughed at the disbelief in his tone. “Not at all. But publicity is publicity, right? It’s all about the impression you make and if your name is known.”
His eyes narrowed, and Amaya sensed she’d struck a nerve. “Yes, I can understand that. And it worked out for you?”
“For a few weeks there, I played quite the local celebrity.”
He waved his finger to indicate the other guests. “Do you think these people know who you are?”
“If they watch reality shows, maybe. Is that something five-star snobs do? I’m a working-class dancer, so I wouldn’t know.” She kept her tone light, but the gleam in her eye goaded him gently.
“Would they recognize you? Is that why they were so nice to you?”
Amaya dropped her brows with a dubious pout. “Couldn’t they have been nice to me because I was nice to them? It works most days, you know.” Even as she said it, she burned with shame. She had been defensive and snippy with him since they’d arrived at the restaurant.
“I’m trying to fit in with the elite crowd’s expectations,” he said.
“This is Oregon. You should be in a plaid shirt and hiking boots this time of year.”
“My objective is to fit in with the five-star set.”
She sighed, struggling within herself not to become combative. “Well, you’re the one assigning the stars, so you can order a custom fit if you want. I’m just saying, the Northwest’s most famous billionaire is Bill Gates, and everyone knows he’s a messy dresser and a super nice guy. You could loosen that tie and flash your cute dimples, and you’d probably get a much better response from people.” She realized a beat too late that she’d complimented his smile and blushed down into her lap. His personality might be all wrong, but he was easy on the eyes. Why couldn’t she just be nice—or better yet, shut up?
“I’ll take your advice under consideration,” he answered.
Amaya didn’t look up, still stewing with frustration that he’d rattled her out of her normal goodwill towards all. It typically took a mountain of provocation to wake the tiger in her, but for some reason, Frank Judd-Grumbleygut irritated the manners right out of her.
A few minutes later, Frank placed the order for the hors d’oeuvres and then gestured behind her. “Shall we dance while we wait?”
“Are they going to take that long? The service here sure is slow.”
“This isn’t fast food, Miss Jefferson.” He almost smiled. “This is supposed to be a culinary experience to ignite the senses, not merely fill the gastrointestinal tract.”
Amaya blinked. “Seriously, what’s with the way you talk?”
He exhaled with obvious irritation. “Will I be required to simplify my vocabulary in order for you to comprehend what I’m attempting to communicate?”
She rocked her chin with defiant attitude. “Oh, you’re communicating fine. It’s like a big, flashing, neon sign that says, Snob, Snob, Snob.” She flicked her fingers in time with her last words for emphasis.
Frank flinched. “How—”
“Do you talk to your friends like that?” Amaya challenged. He hesitated, eyes wide. “Uh-huh. Of course not. You don’t have any friends because you think you’re too good for everybody.” His pompous act chafed her too much to let it go, but she softened her tone and tried for humor instead. “You think you’re so smart, but I bet you couldn’t talk like a caveman for even one minute.”
His face twisted with confusion, and the expression surprised a giggle out of Amaya.
“Whatever would I—”
Amaya chewed back a smile and held up a finger. “One-syllable words. I dare you.”
Frank pressed his hands on the edge of the table, resembling a mule balking. “That’s ludicrous. Why would I even want to do such a thing?”
“Good question.” Amaya silently reprimanded herself. How could she turn her unkindness around? “Because all the most important words are one syllable, Frank.” She met his eyes and spoke with deliberate clarity, enunciating each word with a pause. “Please. Thank you. Can I help you?” Her gaze dropped with sadness. “I love you.” She shrugged, embarrassed by the pang of vulnerability he could surely see. “Little words matter, Frank.”
He reacted as if she’d slapped him, his cheeks flushing and his eyes glistening with tears of pain. Blinking quickly, he stood up and came to her side. He held out his hand, and in a deep, caveman voice, grunted, “Let’s dance.”
Relief burst from Amaya in a gasp. She took his hand, surprised it could be so cold. Mimicking his tone, she answered, “Good job.”
He gave a soft grunt with his brows pulled down in an exaggerated, Cro-Magnon scowl. More quietly, he indicated the dance floor. “Nice sound.”
She allowed him to lead her as a soft, classical waltz began. Their bodies folded into position, and they took their first, simple steps together.
This close, his spicy cologne intrigued her. She would have guessed he smelled like old, dusty books, not some exotic tree.
With a squeeze of her upraised hand and a tug at her waist, he pulled her into the first turn, and they made their way with stiff, over-pronounced movements around the floor.
“Okay, so you plan to dance like a caveman, too.” She wasn’t sure if he was still acting or really danced that badly, and a peek at his fallen expression gave her the answer. She had to change the subject, try to be kind. “This is killing you, isn’t it?”
His eyes widened, and his mouth fell open. “Small words, please.”
“Oh, you!” She shimmied playfully and made her own Neanderthal voice. “You try hard. I proud of you.” Despite her silly challenge, he had played along, and she had to give him a point for that.
A hint of a smile quirked his lips. “Is time up? I talk good now?”
“Yes, sir,” she said, giggling. “You can talk normally now. And by normal, I mean normal. Somewhere in between Stanford and Stone Age.”
That did it. He actually chuckled, and Amaya liked the warmth of the sound.
“So, Mr. Judd,” she said, gracefully dodging his left foot by adding a flourishing sweep of her right. “Back to my original question. Why do you talk like that? The vocabulary. Do you eat shredded thesaurus every morning for breakfast? Because that can really work a number on your colon. It’s probably why you look constipated all the time.”
A flash of pain crossed his face, making Amaya wince. Why were her claws so sharp tonight?
He took a few more steps to answer. “I attended the public library as a child.”
Amaya pulled her face from its position over his shoulder to question him. “The library?”
“My own family was not … educated. During my childho
od, I spent long hours in the library while they worked long hours to rent an apartment in the suburbs. I was determined not to follow in their footsteps.”
“No afterschool sports for you?”
His quiet, bitter laugh communicated volumes.
“It’s all right, Frank. Not every guy who tops six feet has to play basketball.” Without a prompt, she opened her body out in a slow twirl.
He caught on, retrieving her with a bemused expression. “I thank you for your gracious understanding.”
Amaya turned a shrug into a move that could pass for choreography. “So, you read a lot. Earned good enough grades to go to college.”
“Yes, U of O.”
“Worst possible fit for you.”
“What? Why?”
“It’s the hippie capitol of Oregon.”
“Ouch!” He frowned.
“What are you ouching for? I haven’t stepped on you once.”
He twisted her hand to cue another spin. “Why would you say I’m not a good fit for U of O? It has excellent programs in the Fine Arts.”
Amaya raised a brow, curious that he cared for such studies. “My cousins go there on football scholarships. Every time I’ve gone down there, it feels very laid-back.” She hitched her shoulder and jutted her chin at his clothes. “Not fancy-dress territory. More like Birkenstocks and hoodies.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Frank’s eyes drifted away as the song concluded. “Try as I might, I’m never quite in fashion for my surroundings.”
Amaya felt bad that she might have hurt his feelings. Straightening his tie, she said, “Make your own fashion. Whatever it is, you’ll wear it well.”
Again, she blushed. Couldn’t she find something other than snotty comments and compliments about his appearance to say?
However, the surprised look in his eyes told her he had needed the praise, perhaps more than she understood. She smiled at him, and though his face did not move, the warmth in his cheeks showed.
Amaya glanced to the alcove that housed a piano and a string quartet. This venue was far beyond anything she’d ever visited before.