by Maria Luis
For the sake of Boston’s citizens, it’s best if I don’t touch anything that threatens with a steaming good time.
Slowly, I say, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Dad doesn’t get the hint. “Think of it as father-daughter time.”
Ooh, low blow. I suck in a breath. “We can have father-daughter time after you come home tonight. You know, with a movie or something.”
“Please.”
For the record, Fred Mackenzie does not say “please.” The last time I heard him do so, Shelby was giving birth to Tia as he paced the hospital’s hallways, alternatively cursing God and also praying for a vasectomy.
No more kiddies for Fred, not after Tia.
Taking a deep breath, I stare at my father resolutely. He may call it father-daughter time, but it’s the furthest thing from his mind. He wants help and he wants help now.
And I’m the only one around that he can push into doing his bidding.
Two hours later, I’m decked out in Vittoria’s server uniform. Black pants mold to my legs and a crisp white button-down is fitted over my torso. I’ve rolled the sleeves up to my elbows, and my dark hair is pulled back in a high ponytail.
I don’t know how I’ve managed to get myself into this situation, but I can promise you it’s as bad as I remember.
“Do you know the menu?” Manny, the restaurant’s general manager, demands when he catches sight of me hiding in the beverage station. I’m seated on a blue rack that’s meant to be used to store pint glasses, and not, you know, my butt. Admittedly, it’s not the most comfortable, but beggars can’t be choosers.
I flip the menu over on my knee, so that Vittoria’s logo of the Sicilian countryside stares up at me.
“Zoe?” Manny’s polished leather shoes clip across the tiled floor. “How much of the menu do you know?”
My fingers tap anxiously over Sicily. “The specialty cocktails.” I sneak a quick peek at the black typography. “If I fake it, I can probably get through the appetizers.”
“It’ll have to do.” The menu slips from my grasp as he steals it, and I feel like he’s straight-up taken away my lifeline. “Table 21 is all yours.”
I don’t want it to be all mine. Sure, serving tables shouldn’t be all that different from serving high-end celebrities. I’m a people person. They like me; I like them. Not to sound arrogant or anything, but this shouldn’t be a problem—except at the thought of recreating the fiasco with the mayor all over again, the blood immediately seeps from my face.
“Aren’t servers supposed to have a training period?” I eye the menu Manny clutches in one hand, wondering how desperate I’ll look if I try to take it back.
As if reading my thoughts, he tucks it under his armpit and clamps down. “Our chef quit today and he took most of the serving staff. I don’t care if you fake your way through the entire night. Get out there and pretend you know what the hell you’re talking about.”
His monologue ends in pure silence.
I stare at the menu longingly.
He watches me like he’s expecting me to make a break for it.
After thirty seconds, I ask, “Where’s Table 21 again?”
His eyes squeeze shut. “Lover’s Lane.”
Ah.
More silence.
I open my mouth. “Which lane is that?”
In response, all he does is lift his arm and point at the swinging door leading to the dining area.
I stealthily sneak a peek at a printout of the dining room layout on my way out of the kitchen. Lover’s Lane—to the right and along the back wall of the restaurant. I’ve got this.
At this time of night, Vittoria is packed with patrons. When my dad first opened the restaurant about twenty years ago, its first rendition was more pizza-joint and less fine-dining atmosphere. But as the years bled into one another, and as his phone calls to me grew more sporadic the busier he became, thanks to the restaurant’s newfound fame, Vittoria slowly climbed the ranks.
Now one of Boston’s trendiest restaurants, Vittoria can be found in the historic Italian neighborhood of the North End. The interior is designed with exposed brick walls, wrought iron sconces and chandeliers, and pristine white tablecloths. The menu regularly scores high reviews from top food bloggers, and, from what my dad has told me, it’s not uncommon to see celebrities step through Vittoria’s front doors.
Sidling up to the hostess stand, I snag a vase of water and count my way over to Table 21 in Lover’s Lane.
Eighteen…
Nineteen…
Twenty…
Here we are. I slide my finger into my shirt collar, and subtly straighten my black bow tie. Taking a deep breath, I step up to the table and grin.
“Hi there! Welcome to Vittoria!”
A blonde-haired woman blinks back at me. “My date is in the restroom.”
Gotta love the people who must let everyone know that they aren’t eating alone. Once, I was just like them. Recently, I’ve learned to enjoy my independence. I can eat when I want, where I want, and thank God I no longer have to worry about a man telling me to lay off the second slice of cheesecake.
My cheesecake, my rules.
My gaze drops to the woman’s dress, which borders on Academy-Award-worthy, it’s so fancy. While my dad’s restaurant is largely upscale, it still doesn’t call for . . . . Well, this.
The woman is encased in cheetah-print silk.
It’s rather stunning, actually.
I almost want to ask where she purchased it.
Her incredibly breathy, high-pitched voice stops me. “Did you hear me? You can come back in five minutes.”
“Let me give you some water while you wait,” I murmur, lifting the vase. My elbow hikes up as I lean forward, cutting short when it hits flesh.
There’s a male grunt.
A gritty curse.
Oh, no.
I whip around to apologize, only to be stilled by strong, masculine fingers.
“Give me a second,” the voice growls, and instant awareness hits me. I know that voice way too well.
Andre.
Please, for the love of all things holy, someone just end my misery.
“Oh, my God,” the blonde exclaims, her eyes landing on the NHL’s best enforcer behind me. “Are you okay?”
With Andre’s fingers still locked around my elbow, and my back to his chest, our little position is starting to feel way too familiar. “I’m fine,” he says between gritted teeth.
“I’m pretty sure she nailed you in the—”
“Suzanne.”
The blonde clamps her mouth shut, sitting back primly in her seat as she shoots daggers in my direction. Like this is my fault. And, yes, theoretically I did potentially elbow him in the crown jewels, but I certainly didn’t ask for him to swoop up behind me, all stealthy, ninja-like.
With the vase of water still clutched in my hand, I decide there’s no other recourse. “Andre,” I say evenly, “would you please let go of me?”
“Zoe?”
His hand drops from my arm like I’ve combusted into fire.
I turn around, water vase clutched tightly. The scowl on his face is the stuff of legends, but beneath the frown, beneath all that bad attitude, I sense his shock at finding me here. And, boy, the glint of surprise in his black eyes warms me considerably.
Andre Beaumont is not the sort of man that one frequently one-ups, and the fact that I’ve managed to do so . . . . Yeah, it feels good. Mentally I give myself a pat on the back.
I glance down to where his big hand is pressed flat against his stomach. “Did I get you where it hurts?” I ask with a downward tilt of my chin.
The shock evaporates from his expression like a wisp of smoke, and the hard, impenetrable glare shifts back into place. “Are you hoping that you did?” he asks gruffly.
My shoulders lift in a lazy shrug. “Wrong place, wrong time.”
Dark eyes narrow on my face. “Is that a dig?”
“On the f
act that you stood me up today and didn’t bother to respond to any of my calls or text messages?” I offer another shrug, noting the way that each time I do so, his eyes narrow further. Any more of that and he’ll be staring out at me through mere slits. The part of me that’s still bitter about everything encourages me to do just that, to push him over the ledge and see what happens. “Maybe.”
“Maybe,” he reiterates stonily.
“Depends on whether you actually had a good reason for not showing, like saving homeless puppies or volunteering at an elderly home.”
His arms cross over his burly chest. This time, he isn’t wearing a T-shirt, and I can’t stop myself from taking in my fill. Black button-down, open at the neck to reveal the tan column of his throat; matching black slacks that do nothing to hide his muscular thighs. He clears his throat and it’s enough for me to blink up at his face.
He’s totally caught me staring, but I refuse to cower. In the end, he blows out a frustrated breath. “Maybe I was saving puppies and volunteering. Maybe I thought that our scheduled meeting could be rescheduled.”
“Oh, don’t you worry,” I tell him with a jovial pat-pat to his hard chest, “We have thirty days to make sure that all goes as planned.” A tick starts in his jaw and I stifle a victorious grin. “Now, we don’t want to leave your date hanging.” I shoo him into the booth with my free hand. “Let’s try the water thing again, shall we?”
While Andre stews in muteness, his expression one that can only be filed under “pissed-off man,” his date flits her hands over his chest and down toward his . . . waist. I assume it’s his waist, but maybe she’s trying for something else under the table. Andre has obviously made it abundantly clear that public places don’t deter him in the slightest when it comes to sex.
But he does surprise me when he captures her wrists and presses her hands to the tabletop.
His gaze still hasn’t left me. “Are you stalking me?” he asks, voice low.
I top off his date’s glass with water and then do the same for his. “I work here.”
Temporarily.
Just for tonight.
Definitely not on a permanent basis.
“So, no,” I continue, casually tucking the water vase against my hip. “In order for me to stalk you, I’d have to be emotionally invested.”
“And you’re not?”
“Emotionally invested?” Ha! I try to withhold my laugh for a few reasons, the first one being that he is on a date with another woman. And seeing as how we haven’t even spoken for the better part of a year, being “emotionally invested” with the man in front of me is absolutely a no-go. I may have been so at one time—maybe—but surely not now.
I know better.
He waits for me to continue, and I’ve got half a mind to tell him that he’ll be waiting forever, but then he reaches for the water I’ve just filled and takes a healthy sip. His throat works down the liquid, and I’d be lying if I said he didn’t look sexy as hell right now. Which really isn’t fair, because he doesn’t seem the slightest bit affected by my presence—only at the potential thought that I’ve become his personal stalker.
He places the glass on the table, then leans back in the booth, arm resting along the top, to stare up at me. “I think you are.”
My back stiffens. “I think you’re delusional.”
“Well, I don’t know what I think,” Suzanne cuts in testily, “but I do know that if you don’t run along now and get us some of that delicious bread, I’m going to request that you be removed from our table.”
I don’t have it in me to hate her because she’s so right. She might be on a date with the man who left me high and dry, but I have no reason to be hanging around like a lovesick fool.
Especially since I’m the furthest thing from it.
I murmur my apologies, take their cocktail orders, and book it back to the kitchen. Only once I’ve burst through the swinging doors do I heave in a deep breath. Of all the people who I could be serving tonight, Andre Beaumont is the very last person I expected to find seated in my section.
Lover’s Lane. Oh, the irony.
I sincerely doubt Andre has the capabilities to love anything, including a dog, and that’s saying something.
Almost maniacally, I shove two loaves of bread into a wicker basket, plop it on a round, black tray, and make my way to the bar. I skim my gaze over my section, and note a new couple being seated.
The stampede is about to start, and there’s a good chance my body will be found crushed and flattened by the time the night’s over.
“Here,” the bartender mutters as she slides a whiskey and coke, as well as a Sex on the Beach, over to me. “Don’t spill these.” She stabs the printout orders onto a toothpick and barely spares me another glance before heading to the opposite side of the bar.
Well, then.
Gotta love them when they’re friendly.
Balancing the tray, I carefully set the two cocktails beside the basket of bread, and then weave my way through the white-clothed tables. I promise the new couple that I’ll be right with them, holding my tray against my hip like a pro, and continue on to the Table of Doom.
The moment that I set the basket on the table, Suzanne snags two pieces of bread and digs in with full gusto.
“Sex on the Beach,” I say, precariously lifting the brightly colored drink from my tray and placing it before Andre’s date. “And”—I turn to Andre—“a whiskey and coke.”
His brows furrow. “I asked for only a soda.”
My limbs freeze and my gaze darts to his. Mentally I rewind our conversation. Oh. He did ask for only a soda. A coke, to be precise. My mouth opens before I bite my lower lip, because what can I say?
I remember your favorite drink.
Sorry, apparently I haven’t broken the habit of ordering for you.
Please don’t make this weird.
Yeah, because any of those options will go over tremendously well.
Praying that he doesn’t read into the situation, I mutter, “I’m sorry. I’ll get that coke for you.” I reach out to grab the cocktail, but he moves it away from my hand at the last moment.
“I’ll drink it.”
“But you didn’t ask for it.”
His gaze lands on my face, and maybe I’m crazy (totally possible), maybe I’m imagining things (also possible), but his dark eyes crinkle at the corners as though he’s trying desperately not to smile. “I’ll drink it, Zo.”
Zo.
His old nickname for me.
Damn, but I wish it didn’t feel so good to hear him call me that.
Softly, I say, “Okay.” Do not read into the situation. Somberly, I take their food order and dart back into the kitchen to input it all into the POS system.
My dad hollers at me from behind the grill, cracking jokes about the Mackenzies taking over Vittoria. The staff don’t laugh, as they’re deep in the weeds and have that crazed-eye thing going on.
I’m pretty sure that I have it too.
For the next hour or so, I flit from table to table in Lover’s Lane. I pour water into glasses, and drop off bread baskets. I manage to correctly bring out food, and succeed in not sending mussels cascading from the sky.
I’m so busy, actually, that I don’t realize that the rush has died down completely until there’s almost no one left in the restaurant. An elderly couple is seated outside of my section, on the other side of the restaurant, and two four-tops have joined forces to sing Dean Martin at the top of their lungs. Since they’re also not in my section, I summarily dismiss them as not my problem.
But not even I can resist the draw of Dean Martin. I sway a little side to side, enjoying the patrons’ off-beat tempo, a small smile flitting to my face—until my gaze lands on the sole figure at the bar.
Andre.
Even though he’s facing away from me, I recognize his muscular frame in a heartbeat. His dark hair is all disheveled from his fingers (or maybe from Suzanne’s?), and his crisp dinner jacket is
laid over the barstool next to his. Against my better judgment, I follow the line of his spine, sweeping my gaze down over his athletic body. He’s seated with one foot up on the barstool’s footrest, while his other is planted on the floor.
As if sensing my stare, Andre glances over his shoulder, and his dark eyes find me watching him. It’s too late to run, too late to turn away and pretend that I haven’t been standing here ogling him.
The man might be an asshole, but he’s the sexiest asshole I’ve ever met.
His eyebrow quirks up, an obvious dare for me to come closer.
And, damn my feet, but I do just that.
As if tethered to him by an invisible string, the distance between us dissipates, until I’m standing right in front of him. Since he’s still seated, we’re almost at eye level for once, and there’s no hiding the way he studies me intently, not saying a single word.
It’s an intimidation tactic I’ve seen him use on his opponents in the rink. Like a lion after its prey, he sits, waiting, prolonging the moment until I give away my ace and he can swipe in for the kill.
Feeling uncomfortable, I focus my attention on his cocktail—another whiskey and coke.
Why is he still here?
“Where’s your date?” I ask, hating how I sound less ambivalent and more inquisitive. I don’t want to be inquisitive. I don’t want to care, one way or another.
“She went home.”
I squash the ridiculous slice of hope springing in my chest. Hope I have no business feeling because it’s not like we’re together or ever will be. “Not going for a round two, then, I imagine?”
“Probably not.”
I feel my eye twitch. “She didn’t do it for you or something?”
“Or something.” He undoes the second button of his shirt collar, as though overheated. “It was casual.” Shaking his head slowly, he adds, “What I meant to say is, it just didn’t work out. No chemistry.”
The twitch threatens to turn into an all-out spasm. Once upon a time, I’d had no problem talking to Andre about his women. But now . . . it leaves a sour taste in my mouth. “I was under the impression that chemistry wasn’t something you needed in your romantic life,” I murmur, “one and done, right?”