Reservations for Two

by Jennifer Lohmann

  He admired her.

  More than wanting to touch her and share her bed every night, Dan wanted to stand beside her as she succeeded and as she failed. He wanted to be the man she kept up late into the night talking excitedly about her ideas for her restaurant and hopes for the future. He wanted to be the person who held her in his arms when life threw her lemons. He wanted to help her figure out how to make the perfect lemonade.

  If that wasn’t love, he didn’t know what was.

  “Are you willing to put your money where your mouth is?” Mike interrupted his thoughts.

  “What are we even betting on?”

  “Just an amendment to our original bet. That review is screwing you over and you’re going to root for the White Sox at the next Crosstown Classic. After you write your new review, I think you’ll be a Sox fan for at least a year and I don’t mean telling me you watched a game on TV. That Cubs hat will be replaced by a Sox one and I think a White Sox license-plate holder would be a good addition to the Subaru. Plus going to games.”

  Had Mike fallen on his head recently? “The first bet I can understand, because Rich arbitrates, but I decide if I write a new review and I bet I’m not going to. It would be going against my self-interest.” Even if Tilly was a White Sox fan and Dan would love to see her blue hair sticking out from under a black Sox cap.

  Mike shrugged. “Your self-interest is to write a new review. Of course, if you’re not sure about the review...”

  “Fine.” He was being goaded into this, but Mike was the one who was going to lose. So why did Dan feel like the bad guy?

  “It’s not fair to get insider information, Mike.” Shane arrived, whacking his racquet against his hand.

  Dan stared at the racquet, willing with his body and soul for the thing to fly out of Shane’s fingers and hit him in the face. But Dan had no superhero powers today. The racquet kept swinging and Shane’s face remained unsmacked. Then the meaning of the words struck Dan’s brain and he looked closely at Mike. His honest, upstanding friend Mike.

  “What insider information?”

  “Mike didn’t tell you? There’s a pool going, about when you’ll write a new review. Pot’s up to a thousand bucks.”

  Shane stretched out comfortably on the bench next to Mike. Almost close enough for Dan to hit.

  Feeling violent today, Danny?

  The person he should be hitting was himself. Shane was an annoying little gnat of a man but, like a gnat, he was essentially tiny and harmless. The betting pool was tasteless, but not personal. Of his friends, only Mike had met Tilly. Of course, Dan had nearly had sex with Tilly on her desk and he was still betting on their relationship.

  Dan unclenched the fist he hadn’t realized was in his lap. He couldn’t hit Shane, wrestle him to the ground and keep him in a choke hold until the gnat pounded the floor for mercy. Dan was the bad guy right now. Shane was just the stooge.

  Dan looked at Mike. His friend. “Are you in on this pool, too?” How many bets did Mike have running on him right now?

  Mike held up his hands. “Wasn’t my idea. I warned Shane you might display some of the moves that made you a college wrestling champion when you found out, but he insisted.”

  “I think Mike has forfeited his chance at the pot, coming to you for insider information. That’s cheating. He’s trying to get you to write a new review so he can have the money.”

  Mike turned to the buzzing whine of Shane’s voice, his face red with anger. “Shane, Dan won’t punch you because the person he’s really mad at is himself. I have no such qualms and you called me a cheater.”

  Shane looked at the sports agent and shrugged. “Give me an equal shot at convincing Dan to skew the bet my way.” He turned back to Dan. “I’ll even split the pot with you. Seventy-thirty.”

  “Right now, I’d pay three hundred dollars to watch Mike punch you in the face.” Just because Mike was right and Dan was mad at himself didn’t mean he wasn’t also mad at Shane for starting the pool. Violence wouldn’t solve his problems, but it might make him feel better for a little while.

  And it would shut Shane up.

  “Fine. Sixty-forty.”

  Mike turned to Dan. “The little shithead has no shame and no fear.”

  Shane chuckled. “You guys talk big, but neither of you are real bullies. I believe Dan would wrestle me to the ground and make me say uncle, but that wouldn’t cause lasting damage. And neither of you would punch me. Or not yet anyway. I know the line I can’t cross and I haven’t even come close to it yet. So, Dan, sixty-forty?”

  “You’re not invited to play racquetball anymore.” Dan would find some random guy on the street to make up their regular foursome.

  “I’ll take that as no. When does Mike want you to write the new review?”

  He’d expected to argue with Tilly about the review, but his friends should know he couldn’t write a new one. “I’m going to pretend you aren’t here,” Dan said. He and Mike could play racquetball one-on-one.

  “I just want to know if he’s cheating,” Shane whined.

  “I wouldn’t tell you. In fact,” Dan added, “I might even lie to you so you thought he wasn’t. Shut up about the bet in the next thirty seconds, or I’ll make sure Mike wins the pool.”

  Shane might not believe Dan or Mike would commit violence, but the threat of losing a thousand dollars had some power. He took one last look at Mike, eyebrows raised, and shrugged. “Fine.” He gestured with his racquet to the court. “Where’s Rich so we can play?”

  Dan turned to his friend, his rat fink, double-crossing asshole friend. “I wish we were bully enough to punch him.”

  “Think of it as motivation. Shane bet Tilly would dump you before you got around to writing a new review.”

  * * *

  LOOKING OUT AT the dining room between rushes, Tilly contemplated the number of tables she needed filled and the number of tables actually filled. The difference between those two was getting smaller, but she didn’t want to get her hopes up. If the party that had ordered almost everything on the menu was any indication, she’d had a visit by another restaurant reviewer. No cats had busted in the door, so she hoped for at least one good review.

  The staff was all working in sync. No missed reservations. No prep in the wrong place for the line cooks. Steve had called in sick, which meant the waitstaff had to run their own tables, but that didn’t seem to be slowing anyone down. All in all, Tilly couldn’t complain about the night.

  She just wished Babka had more customers.

  As usual, Tilly riffed the dishes she was finishing in her head, and, although she knew she shouldn’t let him, Dan influenced her alterations. She had gotten a sense of what food he liked: simple, classically prepared food with a kick of something unusual and, in Babka, distinctly Polish. Everything about Dan was classic and clean.

  She should stop packing him a lunch. Feeding someone so personally implied a relationship and they didn’t have one. She wasn’t confident she could rely on him, no matter how much she looked forward to his visits. He still couldn’t see that his review had nearly ruined Babka’s reputation, or that he should make amends for it.

  And apparently she was a glutton for punishment, because she still hoped he would come to Babka tonight and make her laugh.

  Tilly shook her head. This train of thought was useless. They didn’t have a relationship. They weren’t going to have a relationship, because even if he asked her out on a date, she would say no. All this, the lunch-packing and relationship-contemplating, had become a habit; the tasks had worked themselves into her daily routine.

  Continuing with her new routine, Karen skipped into the kitchen to tell her Dan was at the bar, waiting for whenever Tilly was free. As she had for the past two weeks, Tilly thought about saying she was busy, wondered who she was kidding and walked through the swinging doors to the restaurant.

  Dan smiled at her and she wanted to toss Babka to the culinary wolves and go out on a proper Saturday-night date with him.
Dancing or to the movies—whatever it was normal people did on Saturday nights. He looked at her as if she were all the courses in a seven-course meal. She wanted him to look at her like that when it wasn’t late at night, in her restaurant, with all her staff watching.

  But she had a restaurant to save.

  “How were last night’s pierogi?” she asked as she placed a bag packed with food on the bar.

  “Perfect, of course.” Dan didn’t once glance at the bag of food. He looked at her.

  As usual, Tilly thought about going around the bar to sit next to him and decided against it. She would talk longer with him if she sat at the barstool. Anyway, they had established a routine and she intended to stick to it. The routine involved her on one side of the bar and him on the other.

  Then Dan broke the routine. “I’m taking you out for breakfast tomorrow morning.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  WITH THOSE EIGHT WORDS, Dan proved himself as much of an ass as Mike accused him of being every day as he ate Tilly’s carefully packed lunches. Every day he enjoyed a delicious lunch and every day Mike sent him a text asking if he was going to write a new review.

  The answer, of course, was no. He liked Tilly. He liked the way her blue hair escaped her bandanna, no matter how often she tried to tuck it back. He liked what the strength in her forearms when she rolled back the sleeves of her jacket meant about her dedication to her restaurant. And he liked the way the roundness of her hips cradled in his hands just so, and how that roundness spoke to her passion for food.

  That was his personal life. The review was professional. His feelings for Tilly couldn’t influence his obligation to write honest reviews. Her business was so personal to her she didn’t understand how he could separate them. He wanted her to try, though, enough to surprise himself by asking her out on a date. After spending nearly two weeks perched on this barstool like a roosting chicken, he wanted to see Tilly when she wasn’t distracted by Babka.

  No denying he was a chicken. Or an ass. A blind and deaf jury could convict him of being an ass. His presence here was evidence enough. He should never have come back to Babka, his bet with Mike be damned. But when he had eaten a tasty dinner at one of the many Chicago eating establishments, he had wished he was eating Tilly’s food, with Tilly there. Remembering how she didn’t simply talk with her hands, but rather with her entire body, her eyes and her smile. How the color on her face matched the occasional stain on her jacket. Then he would wonder whether all her underwear had red polka dots or if she had any with green stripes. Maybe a heart or two. Lace. Lace would be good.

  He wanted to take risks around her.

  Almost without thinking, he would be at Babka, just as he was tonight, drinking his beer and listening to her talk about her restaurant and her troubles. And fool that he was, he felt like mistakes—the cat, the oversalted food, his relationship with his family—didn’t matter and there were only happy accidents. He would stare at her and think crazy thoughts. About painting his bedroom walls the color of her hair and taking her to meet his parents. But no matter how much she laughed, she always held a part of herself back because he was The Eater.

  He would think about what it would take for her to enjoy his company without reservations and think about the reputation he’d spent years trying to build. He’d think about how he defended his existence whenever he spoke to his father and how little his existence would mean without reviewing for CarpeChicago. He’d wonder how far his reputation had to fall before Dan Sr. saw the death throes of Dan’s career as an opportunity to pull him back to Meier Dairy. How bad would things have to get before Dan gave in?

  Writing a new review wouldn’t kill his career, but if he opened those doors once, even for good reasons, could he shut them again?

  He would finish his beer and head the couple of blocks northwest to his home. He would pretend he was happy about his white walls and he didn’t care what his father would say about Tilly’s blue hair. He would pretend he wasn’t a complete asshole because he was The Eater from CarpeChicago and she was the chef of a restaurant he’d panned.

  Tonight was different. He couldn’t pretend any longer. Tonight he proved himself a complete asshole. But he couldn’t stop himself. Tonight was Saturday. Babka would be closed Sunday and Monday. He couldn’t go another two days without seeing her smile, hearing her laugh, catching the sparkling life in her eyes.

  He wanted to kiss her somewhere other than her restaurant, somewhere there would be no interruptions and they could taste each other until their hunger abated, though he doubted their cravings would ever fully go away.

  “This memory of you and a hot dog pops into my head every time I pass a Vienna Beef sign.” He smiled. “Do you know how many Vienna Beef signs there are in Chicago? I get hot and bothered just walking around. If I’m going to have dirty thoughts about you and food, I’d like to add cinnamon rolls. Ann Sather’s makes the best. I’ll pick you up at noon for brunch.”

  “I haven’t said yes yet,” she replied. “I might have to work tomorrow.”

  “Babka is closed on Sundays and Mondays. You can spare time for brunch, especially since I want to watch you lick frosting off your lips.” He’d asked her out. Committed himself to being an asshole. If he was going to make an enormous mistake—the best kind of mistake—he was going to do it right. They would have the whole day. He would have time to plead his case.

  “I don’t trust you.”

  “You look at me and see the review. Give me a chance to show you I’m more than The Eater.”

  She bit her lip and his breath stalled. It hadn’t occurred to him she might say no.

  “Okay. Noon?”

  He breathed again. “Let’s make it a whole day. The Chicago Symphony is playing an afternoon show at Ravinia. I’ll pack us a picnic lunch.”

  “I should do some work tomorrow,” she said, without any conviction in her voice.

  “I won’t keep you out late. You can work tomorrow night. And Monday.”

  * * *

  TILLY LOOKED AT HER WATCH. Eleven fifty-two. He wasn’t late, not yet, but she was beginning to worry. She was headed out on a date for the first time in years. Of course she was worried. She wasn’t working on Babka. Babka should concern her every moment and instead she was going on a date. With The Eater. His review nearly pushed Babka off a cliff.

  When she forgot he was The Eater and let herself remember he was Dan from the Taste who listened to her problems and made her laugh, she wanted to spend all her time with him. She went to her window and looked out over the trees. But he wasn’t just Dan and she shouldn’t be doing this. She drooled at the sight of his legs and he had a nice smile, but neither quality was enough of a reason to go out on a date with the man who had nearly crushed her dream.

  Renia might say the purpose of dating was to learn if you could trust someone, but her sister had never dated a man she trusted, so what did she know? Tilly liked Dan, and that scared her. He could claim a separation of business and pleasure all he wanted, but he wasn’t still trying to make a go of his dreams. She should be back in her kitchen at Babka, where she had control over her environment and problems could be fixed with extra salt or lemon juice.

  Except for the tiny little problem of not having enough customers to keep Babka in the black.

  Movement caught her eye and she looked down from her window to see Dan stepping out of his Subaru across the street. He had a nice form. Khaki shorts revealed muscled calves and broad shoulders stretched out a light-green check button-down. Dan wasn’t tall, exactly, but lean and strong without being overly thin. Complete with aviator sunglasses and sandy-blond hair, Dan looked as if he was stepping out of his car into an Eddie Bauer ad.

  He looked up at her building, caught her staring down at him from her window and grinned. He held up a finger as if asking her to wait, then opened the passenger door. When his head popped back into view, he held up a small potted plant.

  He would be perfect for her, if only...

/>   The buzzer rang and Tilly pressed the button to let him in.

  “You look good enough to eat,” he said when he handed her the plant.

  Potted mint. She sniffed it and took a piece off to taste. Chocolate mint, not rare, but he would’ve had to search it out. It was a thoughtful gift for a cook.

  “I’ll put it on the window with my other herbs. Does it need to be watered?”

  “Probably. As I said at my house, I don’t have much of a green thumb.”

  “Okay. Please make yourself at home.” She gestured around the single room packed with a small dining room table/desk, two armchairs and a bed with her fat orange cat curled up on the pillow. Imbir didn’t even lift his head in greeting, lazy beast. “I’ll go get this some water.”

  * * *

  DAN WATCHED HER walk into her small kitchen, separated from the living space by a bar. She wore a lemon-yellow dress with low V front and purple sandals, the bright colors made brighter by the same fresh scent of lemon he remembered from the Taste. It wafted like a ghost in her apartment. Not cloying, but clean and refreshing.

  As she walked, Tilly’s skirt swayed over her round butt and full hips while the shoulder straps highlighted her strong, sleek arms. At the Taste, he had wondered if her firm arms were a sign that she was a potter and he was partially right. Tilly worked magic and art with her hands, but the power in her biceps and forearms came from rolling out and kneading dough, particularly the tough pierogi dough.

  He smiled to himself. Tilly was no waif. She was average height with plenty of curves that invited his hands to explore. He could watch the swing of her hips and bounce of her skirts all day.

  Rather than sit down, he walked to the deep windowsill behind her two armchairs. Nestled among the pots of herbs were framed photographs. These weren’t snapped pictures, but beautiful portraits of family and friends. They had to have been taken by a professional. In one photo, a woman who looked enough like Tilly to be her mother sat on a towel on the beach, reading. The woman was one second away from looking up and scowling at the photographer, but the photo captured the happy lack-of-awareness moment before the shutter snapped. The largest one, in a prominent position, was an older woman standing by a 1970s avocado-green stove, laughing and admonishing the photographer with a wooden spoon. She wore a white half apron and old-fashioned clunky shoes.