“Good evening, Jeremy,” says a sultry woman’s voice.
Jeremy and I turn around. There’s an attractive blond with menus in her hand.
“Your table’s ready,” she says.
He hasn’t talked to anyone as of yet, but she knows his name.
“Thank you.” He smiles graciously.
She beams but only looks at Jeremy. “You can follow me.”
Jeremy winks at me and waves me in front of him, wanting me to pass.
The waitress swishes her ass as she leads us through another corridor and past the bar. There is a table in the corner, not far from the bar and very close to the waitress station. I walk toward it and stop, longing for something less busy and with a little better light. “How about that one over there?” I say, pointing near the window.
Our hostess stops and looks at Jeremy as if she needs his permission to honor my request.
“It’s just kind of dark over here,” I add.
He looks at the hostess and nods.
She smiles at him with a twinkle in her eyes. “Right this way.”
Peeved, I narrow my eyes to slits. I guess tonight I’m the invisible woman as far as she’s concerned.
We take our seats and begin looking at the menus. Not even a minute later, a dark-haired waitress with plump cleavage and overapplied makeup comes to our table and asks if she can get our drinks.
“Just water,” I say.
“Are you sure?” Jeremy asks.
“I’m sure.” I look back at the waitress and wait for her to give me some good eye contact. She finally does. “Water will be fine.”
She quickly shifts her gaze back to Jeremy’s face, and he stares at her tits. “I’ll have a beer.”
The waitress grins, seeming satisfied by his gawking. “I’ll be back with those drinks,” she says, flapping her eyelashes at Jeremy.
He winks at her and looks down at his menu.
“You come here often?” I say.
“Not much. Only every once in a while.”
“How often is every once in a while? Because the hostess knew your name before you told her.”
His eyes veer up to my face. “Maybe about once a week or something.”
I let out a biting laugh. “Just so you know, that’s a lot.”
Jeremy chuckles. “Says you.”
“Says anyone normal.”
He shrugs indifferently “I guess I like the food.”
I turn to my left and watch our hostess bussing the table next to us. I can tell she’s trying hard not to look at Jeremy.
“Sure, the food,” I say cynically.
Jeremy leans back in his chair as his eyes skip across the dining room, following her back into the kitchen. I don’t think he’s been intimate with her because if he had, she would be blowing a gasket about now. But he’s definitely been flirting with her.
The waitress brings my water and Jeremy’s beer. She takes our order. I request the shrimp scampi dinner, and he has the steak and potatoes.
“It’s no secret where you’re from,” I say in an attempt to lighten the heavy mood I created by calling him on his lie.
His face turns red as he stares at the table.
I hold up a hand. “Sorry. Sometimes I can be not such a funny girl. I’m sure they eat steak and potatoes all over the country.”
He looks up quickly. “Are you from Minnesota?”
“Born and bred.”
“Humph,” he says.
“What?”
“You drive a Mustang.”
I grin crookedly. “Yeah, my parents hate that about me. They say it’s like playing Russian roulette. But I bought a truck, and now they can rest more soundly and not worry about my winter driving.”
He stops staring at my tits, which he was focused on the entire time I was talking. “So do you have a boyfriend?”
“No, I don’t.”
He cocks his head as if he doesn’t believe me.
“I don’t,” I reiterate.
“How does someone as beautiful as you not have a boyfriend?”
I shake my head. That’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard. “Is that the rule?”
“Is what the rule?”
“Beauty equals bonded to some guy?”
He grimaces. “Some guy?”
“Yeah. If you’re beautiful, then you better have some guy who possesses you.”
He’s quiet, and his eyes keep darting away from my tits.
The server brings our food. This time, it’s a guy and not one of the starry-eyed waitresses. He tells us to enjoy our meals, and I tear into my salad. For a while, Jeremy and I eat in silence. I may have effectively made him not want to bang me anymore, which is great because now I can relax.
“So, Jeremy, what do you do for a living?” I shove an over-buttered shrimp into my mouth. I’m sure I can’t hide the disgust on my face.
“What do you mean what do I do for a living?”
I’m pretty sure that wasn’t an ambiguous question. “Your job?”
He frowns. “I’m in finance?”
“What kind of finance?” I honestly want to spit this out of my mouth.
He grimaces. “Finance, finance.” He leans forward. “Are you okay?”
“Um…” I make myself swallow. “I am now.” I put on a smile.
“How’s your shrimp?”
I would tell him that it’s terrible, but I don’t want him to insist that I order something else. He seems like the type—but maybe not. I never thought he would pick a place like this to dine at often. He definitely comes here for the T&A.
“They’re perfectly satisfactory,” I say.
He smirks. “Are you hard to please?”
That flirtatious look in his eyes is back in full force. I guess he still wants me.
“Not always,” I say. “But when it comes to food—yes.”
He grunts thoughtfully. “I’ll remember that for a second date.”
“Second date?”
He chuckles. “You don’t think you’re going to get off that easy, do you?”
I shake my head, frowning. “Come again?”
“I get that you’ve been trying to turn me off.”
I motion with two fingers for him to come closer to me.
He sets his beer down and quickly obliges.
“Remember.” I carefully look into his eyes. “I’m not fucking you.”
He coughs like he’s choking. “Of course not. You already made that clear.”
“Wonderful.” I sit back in my chair. “So why do the hostess and all the waitresses keep looking at us?”
He follows my gaze to the waitress station, where the girls are whispering as they watch us.
Jeremy shrugs. “Maybe it’s because you’re hot and they’re jealous.”
I can’t help it. I laugh my head off. Jeremy scratches his neck nervously. I honestly believe he thought that sort of compliment was supposed to make me feel better about myself. I’m starting to think he’s a bona fide tool.
We eat in silence for the rest of dinner. He occasionally sends a text on his phone, and I want to ask him if he’s lying to his girlfriend about where he is or something, but then I don’t want him to think that I care.
When we arrive at the Calypso, he parks next to my car.
“I had a great time tonight,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “You don’t have to say that.”
“No, I did really.”
“Okay,” I say indifferently. “Well… good night.” I clench my purse and grab the handle.
“Wait,” he says.
I face him.
“Um…”
I lift my eyebrows and wiggle my head impatiently. “What is it?”
“Nothing.” His shoulders slump.
I smile and wave good-bye. “All right, then. Good night.”
“Wait.” He moves to undo his seat belt.
I raise a hand. “No. I can get my door.”
He stops wrestling with
the device.
I thank him for dinner, get out of the car, and shut the door.
He skids out of the parking lot before I even start my engine. I’m pretty sure he’s a tool and I’ll never see him again. I turn the ignition, and my car starts immediately.
“Yes.” I pump my fist. Sometimes the engine can take a while if it sits out in the cold too long, and tonight is extra chilly. On my way home, I think about my insurance rate going up. I’m pretty sure he’s going to tear up our contract and call in the incident. I think I’d rather pay than go on a second date with him. But then maybe not… I grit my teeth, hating the idea of paying the insurance company a dollar more than I already do. Maybe it won’t be so bad if Jeremy decides to call me for a second date.
5
It’s Friday night, and I’m at home watching TV. It’s a terrible night for a television show. It used to be a great time to go dancing or to a bar to hang out with friends and have a few beers. But lately, Friday has become an excellent night to sleep. I don’t work tomorrow, nor do I have class.
I sit on the couch, careful to not spill my cup of hot milk mixed with black pepper, cinnamon, and nutmeg. I settle myself onto the sturdy cushions. My midnight-blue velvet sectional was a good buy. It’s big and comfortable, great for watching TV and falling asleep on when I can’t make my way to my bed.
I bend over to retrieve the remote from the coffee table. A replay of Thursday night’s Head Chef Total Domination started seven minutes ago. The contestants are engaged in the Lightening Chef round where they have five minutes to make a dish to win an advantage in the episode’s major competition. The winner is also given the power to pick someone to disadvantage. If the victor chooses not to handicap one of his fellow competitors, then he’ll lose his advantage, and it will go to the second-place winner. However, if the first-place winner ends up winning the episode’s major cooking competition, then he or she will win immunity from elimination for the following week. Those are the rules of this show, and I used to hate them. I thought the entire concept made a mockery of the fine art of cooking. I almost can’t believe Randy signed up for this ridiculousness. However, it’s the highest-rated cooking show on TV, and just about all the contestants—winners and losers—have gone on to greatness.
I have no idea what Randy’s making, but he just added a taste of what looks like sherry to his sauté. The beautiful hostess with a lyrical English accent, Britta Ho, stops in front of him and tells him that whatever he’s cooking smells good, and in typical Randy Cousivan fashion, he winks cockily instead of thanking her. I take a sip of my sweet and spicy hot milk and close my eyes to relish the flavor.
A strange mood overcomes me, and I look to my left and right as if checking to see if someone’s watching me. I’m rooting for Randy, arrogance and all. The buzzer rings. The chefs are forced to stop plating and put their utensils down and their hands in the air.
The buzzing stops, but I hear a ringing sound. I quickly turn toward my purse, which earlier I dropped in the armchair as I went to my bedroom to strip out of the day’s clothing and put on a cozy onesie. At this time of night, only one, maybe two people could be calling me.
“Shit.” I set my milk on the coffee table just as the judges taste the food, and I rush to my purse.
If it’s Jeremy, I won’t answer.
I study the screen and tap the green button. “Hey, Naomi the Stranger,” I say as I hurry back over and flop down on the sofa.
“I know,” she says contritely. “Things have been crazy busy.”
A picture of her new, sexy beau comes to mind. “I bet they have. You’ve been crazy busy fucking the sexy professor.” I chuckle, beating back a pinch of envy. My best friend is engaged to Derek Valentine, the sexiest law professor in the entire universe. Once upon a time, even I had a crush on the sexy professor, but he was never interested in getting involved with students. So it was pretty shocking when I saw that he was into Naomi.
Naomi chuckles dismissively. “So what have you been up to?”
I snort. “Ah, the master deflector. Are you going to bypass giving me the Derek Valentine report?”
“There’s no report to give. He’s fine. I’m fine. We’re still together. What about you? Any new loves to report?”
I think about my date with Jeremy last week, but the thought is quickly banished by memories of making love to Randy, who’s one of two chefs in the running to win this episode’s prize. Britta Ho asks Pablo Diaz, the guest chef who’s also owner and executive chef of Al Rojo in Los Angeles, to declare a winner.
I rip my attention away from the screen. “Nope. I’m still on the old-maid track.”
“I doubt that. Listen,” she says quickly.
I sit up straight. “I’m listening.”
“How would you like to take the bar on Monday?”
My mouth falls open, and I stare blankly at the TV screen. Randy lost the competition, but the other chef chooses to go for the immunity rather than weaken another contestant. Actually, he sounds just as brash as Randy, declaring he doesn’t need to disadvantage others to win.
“I don’t know, Nom,” I finally say.
Why can’t I just say what I really feel?
“My dad can get you a seat as an emergency test taker.”
“I didn’t know they did that.”
“It depends on who’s asking.”
I sigh forcefully just as Randy and the rest of the cooks run around in a big grocery store, buying ingredients for the dish they are to prepare. I missed the theme of the entrée, but right now, he and a woman are buying beef.
“Oh, I see,” Naomi says.
“You see what?” I frown, not at what Naomi said but at the woman who’s looking up at Randy, red faced. She’s batting her eyelashes and everything. The next shot is of this woman, Chef Deanna Blume, in an interview, saying that she’s always thought Randy Cousivan was hot.
“And I don’t care he’s a bad boy.” She grins sheepishly. “The badder, the better.” Then she looks off to the side. “Is ‘badder’ a word?” She chuckles, all cutesy.
She’s blond. Does Randy like blonds? My hair is dark auburn. My eyes are sometimes blue and sometimes green. I wonder what color her eyes are.
“Gina?” Naomi says.
“What?” I say abruptly, realizing that I haven’t paid attention to a word she’s said.
“What are you doing right now?”
“Nothing. Watching TV.”
“Oh, well, listen—I get it. You don’t love the law, at least not at the moment, but you don’t want to throw your education down the drain, do you?”
I constrain another sigh. “Nom?”
After a pause, she says, “Yes?”
“I don’t want to take the bar, and I don’t want to talk about my nonexistent law career. Is that okay?”
She grunts. “It’s okay. I just worry about you, that’s all.”
“I know, but I’m a big girl.”
“I know that. Okay, I’ll stop nagging and mind my own business.”
I grunt sarcastically. “At least for now.”
Naomi chuckles. We both are aware that she can’t help herself when it comes to finding solutions for everyone else’s life, including her own.
“So are you still working for your Valentine?” I ask.
She chuckles. “Yes.”
“How is it going other than a little afternoon broom-closet sex?”
“Ha, hardly!” Naomi tells me all about how she and Derek are working together. I partially listen to her prattle on about depositions, contracts, and courtrooms. Randy and the other eleven contestants are running around the kitchen like madmen, preparing their entrées. I’m watching intently. There’s a lot of Randy featured on this episode. He’s bantering with the other chefs, smirking cockily, and moving about as though he owns the kitchen. He looks so sexy.
The camera moves to Deanna Blume. She seems to be having a tough time shelling clams, and I’m sort of happy about it. In a talking-head
interview, she says that she leaves the shelling to her sous chefs.
“Gina?” Naomi says.
“Yes,” I say, snapping my attention back to our conversation.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing. Just watching TV and listening to you.”
“You’re hardly listening to me. What are you watching?”
My first inclination is to tell her the truth, but that quickly dissolves. “Some Lifetime movie.”
“Oh, really? Which one? Is it the woman who shot her husband who had another family with two sister wives?”
I laugh just as Randy finishes seven dishes. “Something like that.” I wiggle my head. “Anyway, I’m done letting this show distract me from you. It’s been so long since we hung out. Do you want to go for a run tomorrow?”
“Ah, I can’t tomorrow. How about next Saturday?”
My mouth is caught open. Randy declares that he’s already done ten minutes before time, and he rushes over to Chef Deanna Blume’s station and starts shelling her clams at a record speed. Then they cut to a talking head of her.
“Yep…” Deanna grins big. “He shelled my clam. I mean, clams.” She laughs.
I don’t find it funny at all.
“Gina!” Naomi calls.
I jump. “What? Yes?”
“That must be a very good movie you’re watching.”
I sigh hard and turn off the TV. “No, it wasn’t good at all. But yeah, sure, I’ll put you on the calendar for next Saturday.”
“Okay,” she says doubtfully as though she’s wondering if I’ll even remember what I just said.
“Really, I’m okay. Just a little tired. Long shift at the café.”
“Okay. Well, how about we talk sometime next week?”
“I’ll call you on Monday or Tuesday or Wednesday—or maybe Thursday. But not Friday—before then.”
She chuckles. “Any one of those days will do, or two or three days even, and Friday works for me too.”
I laugh. We say good-bye, and I turn the TV back on. Britta Ho and Pablo Diaz, along with two other show judges—Daniel Westerly and Leon Masterson—eat Randy’s food. They’re savoring the flavors as if his Mexican-inspired beef carpaccio is a hit. My eyes are glued to the TV as I watch the other dishes come out, including Deanna Blume’s fried-oyster tacos. None of the judges are impressed and are criticizing her for running out of time because she didn’t know how to shell oysters. However, Pablo Diaz does say that he likes the flavors.
Her Perfect Man- The Complete Series Box Set Page 51