by Roya Carmen
Then my attention shifts to her date, but I can’t see his face. He’s tall and broad-shouldered and has a fabulous head of hair. Of course, he’s wearing a classy fitted suit. And I want to vomit a little—people like these two make me a little sick.
“Check out Barbie and Ken over there,” Gabe whispers in my ear. And I laugh out loud—I can’t help it—he’s been thinking the same thing I have. Barbie turns to look at us, and I offer an apologetic smile. Ken doesn’t bother turning around.
“Hello Mr. and Mrs. Hanson,” the hostess offers, her attention fully devoted to them. “How are you?” she asks in that fake-ish way people do. I get the sense that Ken and Barbie have been here on a regular basis—it’s probably just a regular night for them, not a special once-a-year date night, like it is for Gabe and me.
“Table for two?” she asks. And I wonder what the hell happened to us—what about our table lady?
Gabe takes my hand in his and smiles at me. “You look nice,” he says. He’s said it already earlier tonight, but I don’t mind. And I don’t mind sitting on this comfy banquette with him for a little while.
“Table for four actually,” Barbie says. “We’re expecting friends.”
“Yes, of course,” snooty hostess replies. “I do have a table for you. But it isn’t quite ready yet,” she offers apologetically. “It’ll just take a moment.”
“That’s fine,” Barbie says as she and Ken turn toward us. And I see his face. And he’s gorgeous—of course. Of course he’s gorgeous—he’s exactly what I expected.
We instinctively slide over to the far edge of the banquette to make room for them. And for some reason, I don’t smile at them. In such circumstances, I would usually smile politely, as most people would, but I kind of hate these people—they seem a little smug. And they have a table waiting for them, which we apparently don’t.
Gabe leans back and stares up at the ceiling. “I bet we’ll be sitting here awhile.” He’s already losing his cool.
Barbie smiles warmly at Gabe, and he smiles back—of course he would—she’s gorgeous. Ken doesn’t smile at either of us—apparently he’s not interested in idle chit-chat. Good…we’re on the same page.
“How are you?” Barbie asks us with a flawless smile, her lips a soft coral, her teeth perfect and gleaming white.
“Good,” Gabe says. “How ’bout yourself?”
“Great. Thank you.”
Of course she’s great—she has a table.
“It seems real busy tonight,” Gabe offers. He’s always been good at small talk and meeting new people—I envy that about him. He’s a lot more outgoing than I am.
“It’s always busy,” Barbie points out. “Have you been waiting for a while?”
“Not too long,” I offer, awkwardly planting myself into the conversation—yes, my gorgeous husband has a wife, lady. I don’t really know why I’m being so possessive—I’m a little threatened I suppose—the woman does look like a supermodel, and it’s not every day your husband has a conversation with a supermodel.
I catch Ken’s eye, and he quickly averts his gaze. He strikes me as a little odd, the strong silent type. I don’t think he’s said a single word so far. I find myself checking him out—hey, if she can chat up my husband, I can at least sneak a peek at hers. He’s truly beautiful in the classic sense—chiseled features, olive skin, dark sleek hair, not a strand out of place—he’s as sleek and put-together as his wife. He seems very conservative, but I like his flashy purple shirt and tie. He turns to look at me, and I instinctively turn away and feel myself blush a little.
His phones rings—a traditional ring tone, nothing fun. He answers promptly, his voice quieter and softer than I would have imagined. I look away and pretend not to listen, but in fact, I’m straining to hear every word.
“Hi, Simon. What is it?”
A long pause of silence—no one speaks. Barbie seems curious too.
He rolls his eyes, and then he smiles. He has a nice wide smile—the kind of smile you see on people who seem to have more teeth than the average human. “Seriously?” he says. “Well, I’m not surprised, Simon,” he adds, shaking his head. “I’ve known you too long.”
“What is it, Weston?” Barbie asks, very curious. So Ken’s name is Weston—I think I like that better.
He smiles at his wife but doesn’t answer. “It’s not a problem, Simon. Don’t worry. We’ll do it another time.”
“We’ll talk later,” he finally says before hanging up.
Barbie, who is apparently not a complete idiot, has deduced the obvious. “They’re not coming?”
“Nope,” he says plainly, his voice soft. “Apparently, Jennifer has sprained her ankle and insisted on going to the emergency room.”
Barbie laughs. “She’s such a fashionista. She probably did it in those ridiculously high heels she wears.”
I glance down at Barbie’s pumps, which must have a least a four or five inch heel. Do shoes get higher than that?
The hostess, who had stepped away, walks back to her podium. “I’m sorry Mr. Keates. I have no record of a reservation in your name.”
“What!” Gabe snaps, standing. “But I made a reservation,” he tells her, his mouth a hard line. He’s peeved and desperately trying to contain himself. “I called a few days ago.”
“I’m sorry,” the hostess replies—she seems flustered as well. “But there’s no indication on my system.”
He rakes a hand through his unruly hair. “Well, do you have anything available?” All eyes and ears are on him now, and the situation feels slightly awkward. I look away, mildly mortified. I bet this never happens to Barbie and Ken…Barbie and Weston.
“I’m sorry,” the hostess says, straight-faced. She seems a little irked now.
Damn, we don’t need this. We don’t have time for this. We have a show to catch, and we don’t have time to scout for another restaurant—all the restaurants in the area are probably just as packed.
“Well, you seem like a very capable woman,” Gabe offers, turning on the charm. “I’m sure you can work something out for us.”
“I’m sorry,” she almost sneers. “There is absolutely nothing I can do.”
God…there is no thawing this ice queen. And I suddenly hate her, and I hate this pompous, pretentious restaurant too.
Barbie jumps to her stiletto-ed feet, “Are you sure there’s nothing you can do for them?” she asks, her voice silky.
Okay…so Barbie might not be so bad after all.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hanson,” the hostess insists. “We’re at full capacity.” Her eyes light up as she adds, “But I have good news for you…your table for four is ready.”
Barbie takes a seat back on the banquette. “I have an idea,” she blurts out. “You nice folks could have dinner with us,” she offers, all smiles.
Us nice folks? She doesn’t know us. We’ve barely spoken five words. I’m not nice. All I’ve been doing is judging her—and I suddenly feel like a real witch. Barbie’s actually nice. As much as I’d like to hate this woman, I can’t.
“Our friends have just canceled on us, and we have a table for four,” she tells us, but of course, I already knew that from spying on them. “It seems like fate, doesn’t it?” she adds cheerfully.
“Well…uh…” Gabe says. He seems taken aback. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Gabe at a loss for words before.
“Thank you,” I say nervously—this is a really strange situation. “But I’m sure you don’t want to spend your evening with two strangers.”
“Nonsense,” she says. “You two really don’t strike me as sociopaths,” she adds with a laugh.
“Thank you,” I say and instantly feel like an idiot—this conversation is very odd.
“Well, sociopaths do come in many shapes and sizes,” her husband points out, his voice soft and languid. He’s looking at me. “But regardless…I think we’ll live dangerously and take our chances.”
And I can’t help but smile—a big genuine s
mile, and I instinctively bring my hand up to cover it. He smiles back, his gaze staying on me for what seems like the longest time, and I can’t seem to look away.
My heart does a little flip.
What the hell has gotten into me?
Chapter Three
Yes…I believe that fits.
WE FOLLOW THE HOSTESS to a table.
Barbie and I go first, followed by Gabe and Weston. I still don’t know Barbie’s name and they don’t know ours. I barely take in my surroundings—this seems like such a strange turn of events.
As we reach our table, Weston pulls Barbie’s chair back in a very gentlemanly way, and she gingerly perches her bottom on the seat.
I help Gabe with his jacket—he always runs hot.
“Why don’t you sit right there,” she suggests to Gabe, her eyes pointing to the chair facing her. “I love a good view with my meal,” she adds with a wink and a not-so-subtle flirty voice. My jaw practically falls to the floor. I can’t believe she’s flirting with my husband—the gall of this woman.
Gabe smiles and does as instructed—I think he’s a little stunned. And he doesn’t pay me any attention—no gentlemanly chair pulling for me. But I can’t blame the guy—a supermodel is flirting with him. That surely doesn’t happen every day…or week…or ever.
I look over at Weston as he takes a seat next to his wife. I’m curious to see what he thinks of all this. He doesn’t seem bothered one bit. I get the feeling this is not an unusual occurrence.
I take a seat opposite Weston and smile at the hostess as she leaves us.
“Where are my manners,” Barbie blurts out. “I’m Bridget,” she offers, extending her perfectly manicured hand to Gabe.
I suppose I can now stop referring to her as “Barbie.”
He quickly shakes her hand. “I’m Gabe,” he offers. “And this is my wife, Mirella.” I like how he sneaks the word “wife” in there, almost as if he’s reminding her he’s married.
She extends her hand to me, and I take it, surprised by how soft and delicate it feels. And as I smile at her, I am awestruck by her beauty.
I look over at Weston, who gives me a closed-lipped smile. I already know his name because I’ve been kind of spying on him.
“Weston Hanson,” he offers and shakes both our hands in a very business-like way—no smiles, no fanfare.
All the introductions have been made, and there’s a tense moment of silence. Weston rearranges his glassware and cutlery, moving it around ever so slightly and lining it up at perfect angles, into flawless symmetry. His behavior is a little odd.
Then I look over my own setting, and it does seem slightly off, and I find myself mirroring his actions and adjusting it. I look up at him, and he smiles at me. His smile is barely discernable—but it is an invitation, nevertheless, to look at him without inhibition.
The whimsical silver fish-shaped clip on his flashy purple tie draws my eye. He looks completely at ease in his dark sleek suit. I don’t know much about suits, but I bet his is expensive and custom tailored. His eyes are striking—light green speckled with gold, lined with long dark lashes, unlike anything I have ever seen. And my heart does another little flip. I immediately tell myself to settle down.
“Where are you wonderful people from?” Bridget asks.
“We’re from Naperville, born and raised,” Gabe explains. “Well, myself anyway…Mirella moved there from Michigan when she was seventeen.” Gabe has taken the conversation into his own hands, as he always does. And I’m just fine with that—I’m not much for small talk—I prefer listening.
“How ’bout you folks?” he asks.
Bridget laughs. “We live in Lake Bluff. But we also have a few properties here and there.”
Of course.
An almost invisible woman pours water, barely making a dent in our existence. Bridget and Gabe don’t see her at all. Weston gives her a warm, “Thank you,” as do I.
I find myself listening intently. For some reason, I want to know more about these people. Bridget does all the talking, and Weston listens, like I do, catching my eye every now and then.
And I try not to look at him too much.
I feel odd—part of me is exhilarated, and another part of me just wants to disappear.
Bridget tells Gabe she’s a criminal defense lawyer. Damn, beautiful and smart. I’m not surprised—a woman with that much class has to have some brains.
Gabe tells her about his business, and she seems genuinely interested. Gabe has worked in his family business for almost twenty years, since he was sixteen. His family name is synonymous with quality handcrafted furniture—they’ve been doing it for over fifty years.
“Do you build the furniture yourself?” Bridget asks.
Gabe laughs. “Oh no. If I built you a chair, it’d probably be missing a leg, and you’d fall off and break your neck.”
Bridget laughs heartily.
“We actually work in collaboration with the Mennonite community,” he tells her. “They do fantastic work.”
“Too bad,” she says, giggling a little. “I was kind of picturing you with a circular saw and a sexy tool belt.”
Really? This again?
Gabe laughs. “Sorry to disappoint, Bridget.”
Yep, these two seem to be getting along very well—famously, in fact. They’re completely ignoring us—it seems as if Weston and I are not even in the room.
I’m mildly irked.
Weston smiles, seemingly amused. This doesn’t seem to bother him at all.
“What about yourself, Mirella?” he asks—my name flows slowly off his tongue. “What do you do?”
He speaks!
I’m taken aback, and it takes me a second or two to answer him. “Well, I teach kindergarten actually,” I say proudly. I may not make as much money as Bridget, but my work is very rewarding.
He smiles and is silent again.
And after what seems like an eternity, he speaks again. “Yes…I believe that fits.”
I’m surprised by his words. There’s a certain level of intimacy in them. He doesn’t know me—we’ve barely spoken, but he apparently has an opinion on what “fits me.”
I’m curious.
I must get to the bottom of it.
I smile. “What do you mean?”
He hesitates a little. “You seem patient, and also kind and young at heart. A fitting personality for a kindergarten teacher.”
He doesn’t elaborate further.
I’m flattered by his words, but I can’t let this go.
“And what makes you say that?” I ask with a smile. “You barely know me.”
He clears his throat, not quite looking at me. “I study people,” he explains as he fiddles with his sparkling, fish-shaped silver cufflinks. “You can learn a lot from simply observing.”
He’s so cryptic…it’s driving me insane.
“Well, what exactly have you observed?” I ask with determination.
He rubs the back of his neck. “Oh…it’s nothing. I apologize for my presumption.”
But I can’t let this go.
“Enlighten me, please.”
He bites his bottom lip, his gaze glued to the wine glass in his hand. “Well…first off,” he starts, hesitating a little, “when the maître d’ didn’t have a table for you, you didn’t seem too upset. You seemed content, sitting there with your husband, which makes me think you’re pretty easygoing. You didn’t lose your composure or scowl in any way, like your husband did, which tells me you’re patient. Even when the maître d’ told you there was no table, you seemed concerned but not necessarily angry.”
It’s true. I am rather easygoing.
He ventures a look up at me and goes on, “When we sat down at the table, you doted on your husband and helped him with his jacket, and didn’t seem to mind he wasn’t paying attention to you. You like to take care of people, not be taken care of.”
At this point, I am completely transfixed. This guy’s better than that weird palm read
er at the renaissance fair I went to last year.
He shifts in his seat and leans in a bit, the intensity not leaving his eyes for a moment. “You let your husband take over the conversation, so you don’t like to be the center of attention. It’s not about you, it’s about others.”
I am speechless at this point. Utterly speechless.
“When the server poured our water, you thanked her and acknowledged her. You don’t consider yourself superior to her, or anyone else for that matter, merely of different life circumstances.”
And suddenly, it’s just the two of us in the room—his amazing green eyes boring into mine, my attention completely on him, and it shames me to admit, my panties are a little moist.
“And that quirky, rather interesting brooch you’re wearing…it’s very whimsical,” he says, a hint of playfulness in his voice. “It tells me you love color. You love beautiful things, and you’re young at heart. I’d wager you love to do crafts with your kids—you love to color and get silly with them. Am I right?”
Good God.
This guy must have a PhD in behavioral psychology. He’s got me down pat. I do love to do crafts with the kids, and I do love to color. Everything he’s said about me is spot on. I feel almost naked—like he can read my mind or something.
Oh shit! I hope he can’t read the fact that I think he’s the most gorgeous creature I’ve ever laid eyes on.
Damn.
I laugh a little nervously. “Wow…uh…you’re good. You got me spot on.”
He smiles without a word. I want to ask about him, but the waitress comes over and interrupts us.
She takes our order for drinks. Weston orders a bottle for the table—a red, something French and expensive sounding—it seems to be the usual. The waitress obviously knows him well, often addressing him as “Mr. Hanson.”
Gabe, who usually drinks beer, doesn’t order a drink—he never drinks and drives. But he’ll probably have a small glass of wine. Bridget and I order martinis.
I’m glad when the waitress leaves us. I want to know everything about this man. Gabe and Bridget are still deep in conversation. She’s talking about her alma-matter—Harvard…figures.