by Ney, Sara
“Mason’s.”
Miranda turns to face me, eyes wide. “Mason’s?” She has a great poker face; the restaurant is notoriously impossible to get a reservation at. All it took was my assistant calling and we had a table for two in under five. “I’ve never been there.”
No shit. Not many people have.
I, however, go there often enough that a few of the servers and hostesses know me by name. Then again, I’m the shiny new member of the Steam—it’s their job to know high profile clients who might walk through the door with only a moment’s notice.
“I hope you like steak.”
“I do. And seafood, and salad, and bread, and dessert.”
“So, food?”
“Yes! Food. There isn’t anything I won’t eat, except…” Her voice trails off. “Onions and garlic. Yikes.” Her mouth twists. “You do not want me eating either of those things. Ever.”
“Why?”
“Uh…” Her head turns to glance out the window. “Let’s just say I don’t smell cute when I eat onions or garlic.”
“Don’t smell cute? What does that mean?”
She gives me a ‘Do I have to spell it out for you?’ look and I zip my mouth shut.
Oh. So what she’s saying is she smells like stank ass when she eats garlic or onions and I shouldn’t keep asking dumb questions about it.
Point taken.
I might be clueless when it comes to women, but it feels like some confidence is kicking in for me.
We chat the rest of the way downtown, only stopping so I can concentrate on not plowing down any pedestrians. They’re everywhere in this tourist destination, jaywalking and crowding the sidewalks, hordes at the stoplights waiting to get across the main drag.
Mason’s is easy to find yet impossible to park at and I’m lucky to pull up, so Miranda can hop out without being in the street. The valets are ready to take the car and my keys. One less thing to worry about.
A young dude comes to my window and I roll it down, keys dangling in the air. As I drop them in his palm, I say, “Can you let them know I’m here please?”
Code for: Get me inside and seated quick so I don’t draw attention to myself. He runs off, frantically whispering to his co-worker, who dashes inside.
Good boy.
I pop on my sunglasses.
Lower my head before opening the driver’s side door and climbing out, meeting Miranda at the curb, hand hovering over her lower back, but not touching her. I want to, I fucking do—I just don’t have the balls.
We’re greeted in the vestibule by a smiling host, most likely the manager, who begins kissing my ass almost immediately, damn near tripping over himself as he holds the door open for Miranda and asks if she’d like her coat checked.
“No thank you,” she replies and I’m glad—no waiting around after our meal if I want to get the fuck out of here. Then again, all I have to do is tell someone we want it and it’ll be delivered like that. Same goes for my car.
If my date is wondering about all the excellent service, she hasn’t said anything. If she’s wondering why everyone is beginning to take notice of us—of me—she hasn’t commented.
Why would she notice asshole? She doesn’t know who you are. She only knows your first name and that you can afford to drop forty-five grand on a couple baseball cards.
“Mr. Harding, we have you in our side dining room. It’s a bit more discreet.”
Miranda’s brows go up. “What are you planning to do to me Noah? Murder me and drag my dead body through the kitchen?”
The manager looks shocked, quickly hiding it behind an eager smile. “Beverly will be taking care of you with the help of Jacob. If there is anything more you need, my name is Carson, and I’ll be happy to get it for you. Just let one of your servers know.”
He pulls a chair out for Miranda then places the white linen napkin on her lap and the menu over her silver charger plate.
“Can I start you off with a bottle of wine?”
I glance at my date, questioning. “Wine?”
“Um.” She hesitates. “If I could just do iced tea that would be great. With a lemon if you have it?”
God, she is so sweet. And polite.
“Absolutely. And for you?”
“I’ll do the same. With sweetener.”
“Outstanding. Your server will be along shortly to take your order.” He’s gone in a flash and I turn my attention to the pretty girl across from me. Do my best to give her a grin, the tight expression strained, I’m sure.
“You poor thing. Are you nervous?” She laughs. “You look…”
“Angry?”
“I was going to say constipated, but angry works, too. You don’t smile a whole lot, do you?”
Why did she come out with me then if she thinks I’m a crab ass? Then, I frown deeper, realizing I am in fact acting like a crab ass.
In my defense, I’m edgy and paranoid. Not at all ready for this dating thing I was thrust into against my will—which is unfair to Miranda, and I realize that, too. It’s not that I don’t like her or think she’s amazing; I just don’t know how to act around a girl who wants nothing from me. I’m used to women with ulterior motives.
This is going to take some getting used to—I mean the girl ordered a four-dollar glass of tea at a high-end restaurant, for God’s sake.
The drinks arrive and we both doctor them up. Miranda sits back in her cushy, velvet padded seat and watches me add sweetener to mine then lay the tiny packet of trash on the saucer.
“Can I confess something to you?” Her tone is slightly hesitant, but she seems determined to tell me something.
“Yes, of course.” Get it over with now; tell me you’re only here to discuss the baseball cards. Out with it.
I brace myself.
“I’m really surprised you asked me out.”
My brows go up at that, but then I feel several sets of eyes on us and the hair on the back of my neck rises, too. Instinctively, I turn my head a little to see who’s watching us.
A couple at a nearby table gets caught red-handed, but at least they have the decency to look away quickly when I make eye contact, the woman with a cell phone in her hand pointed in our direction.
Nice. Thanks for the privacy, lady I want to shout across the fancy dining room.
“Why were you surprised I asked you out?” I swear my voice cracks when I ask, tension blasting my body, the couple at the other table continuing to catch my eye and distract me.
I try to focus on what Miranda is saying.
“I wouldn’t have known you were interested, especially after Rent. Remember how you ran out?”
“I didn’t run out.” A smile begins a slow creep across my mouth and I stir the sugar in my tea with the skinny straw inside the glass. “I was having a moment.”
“A moment?” she teases. “Is that what they’re calling it now?”
“Listen, I’m not good at this sort of thing, if you haven’t figured that out yet.”
She leans forward in her seat, cleavage plumping a bit, wolfish grin on her face—the flirt. “Oh, I’ve figured it out. I just can’t figure out why.”
Why?
“You’re tall, you’re cute, you seem to be—” Miranda stops talking and cocks her head. “What do you keep staring at?” Her neck turns and it’s then she sees the young couple watching us. “Are they staring at us?”
Yes, 100% they are, but I don’t tell her that. “I think so.”
She looks back at me. “Um…why?”
We’re interrupted by a server, who sets bread on the table in front of us, notepad propped on her forearm, pen poised between the fingers on her other hand.
She glances expectantly between the two of us, waiting on Miranda.
“I’ll have the short rib risotto.” She closes the menu she’s holding and hands it back to Beverly, ordering soup instead of salad. “I always order risotto if it’s on a menu,” she confides in me as I’m about to tell good ol’ Bev here I’ll
take the filet, medium, with mushrooms and broccoli on the side. Wedge salad, dressing on the side.
“So what were we talking about?” She’s squeezing the lemon into her drink. Stirs it with a spoon then rests it on the tea cup saucer. “Oh, that’s right—we were discussing the reason you ran out of Rent. Was it something I did? Because if I offended you in any way, I am so sorry.”
“Offended me? You?”
“Well what other reason could there be? I know I’m a bit much sometimes, but I didn’t think I was that bad. You can tell me—am I too bold? Be honest.”
“You’re not too bold. You were being…” I scan the word bank in my head, settling on “Kind.”
“Kind?” Her little laugh is adorable, but sardonic. “That is not what I would call giving you a full frontal last Saturday.”
“Full frontal?” I almost choke on the bread in my mouth as I attempt to swallow it whole. Bad idea. I cough, covering the action with the napkin from my lap.
“Sure, I’d had just enough alcohol to put the moves on you.”
“Put the moves on me?” I can’t stop myself from repeating her words.
“Duh. What did you think I was doing?”
“Hugging me because you felt bad.”
“Well, sure, you looked miserable, but I also wanted to know what you felt like.” She leans back, satisfied. “And I found out.”
What I felt like? What did I feel like? Now I’m dying to know.
A flash lights up the dining room and I clench my jaw to stop it from ticking.
“Did someone just take a picture?”
“Yeah.”
“Aww, date night!” Miranda nods, dismissing this as normal. “I bet they took pictures of their food, too, and posted it on Insta.”
I don’t bother correcting her, letting her live inside her little bubble before I have to burst it. And I will have to. The young couple who just snapped our picture isn’t the only couple who’s noticed me at the edge of the room—they’re just the first people to do something about it.
Comes with the job, but it’s not always my favorite part of it. Especially not when I’m already treading on thin ice with Miranda for the truths I’ve kept from her.
This is yet another one and it’s going to catch up to me.
Soon.
Tonight.
“Should we ask the waiter to take our picture too?”
Um, no? “Sure, if you want.”
This seems to make her happy because she grins. “Maybe not now—when we leave? How does that sound?”
“Sure.” I relax a bit into my chair. “Tell me more about this full frontal business.”
She rolls her eyes, dark black lashes fluttering. “It was a total ruse. You weren’t going to get handsy, so I was going to get handsy. Only—it freaked you out.” Her laugh is loud enough to draw more attention, but I grin, despite myself.
“I’m not good at flirting.” I am a master of the obvious.
“What are you good at then?”
I can’t decide if this is an innuendo—an invitation to begin a sex conversation—or an innocent question about my secret skills.
I go with the latter. “I’m good at math. And I’m good at…” My throat clears. “Sports.” No time like the present to start dropping hints.
“Which sports?” She only breaks eye contact when Jacob—the other server—sets down our soup and salad.
I wait for him to leave. “I used to play football, but then in high school, I focused on baseball.” I force the words out painfully, reciting them like a requiem.
“Baseball? That’s nice.” She pauses just long enough to take a tiny sip of soup, testing out how hot it is. Hums. “This is good. I love bisque—no places I go ever have it.”
I peacock a bit, glad to make her happy with a simple tureen of soup.
“So you’re good at math, sports, and what else?” She busies herself with the bisque, adding a tad bit of pepper. “I want to hear more about you—what do you love doing when you have the weekend off?”
I have entire seasons off—whole months, I want to point out—but I keep that information to myself. Although, now is just as good a time as any to tell her I’m a professional athlete.
“It depends on the time of year,” I admit honestly. “But usually in my free time I work out to stay in shape, and—obviously you know I like collecting things. Baseball cards is only one of my collections. I also love vintage pennants and signed baseballs.”
“Wow. You really do love baseball.”
“Yeah.” I flush, digging into my salad, sliding a mushroom onto my fork for the perfect bite. “What about you?”
“What am I good at? Um—I used to be a runner, but I haven’t gone in ages. Winter had me all kinds of unmotivated, but when I jog, I feel so much better. Uh, let’s see…I paint? And I love decorating. I think I’m good at it?”
“What do you collect?”
“I love antique malls. Architectural remnants. My parents have a place about forty minutes north of here with a shed and they let me store things there. Someday, I’m going to build a house and use the things I’ve collected.”
If she likes old things, she would probably hate my house with its polished stone, echoing hallways, and cold tile floors.
I hate it too, if I’m being real.
“What are you thinking about? You look so serious all of a sudden.”
“I hate my house,” I blurt out.
First, Miranda looks shocked. Then, she bursts out laughing. Snorts. “Oh my god, that is so random. What made you say that?”
“You. It sounds like you know what you want. You have it all figured out.”
“Nah, I just like old shit. Stuff—old stuff, sorry.”
“You can swear, I don’t—”
“Mr. Harding?” A man is standing next to the table, and I glance up. “Sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering—”
“Can it wait? Catch me after I’m done here?” I give Miranda a tight-lipped smile, her eyes having gone wide. “Thanks.”
The man says something I can’t understand, presumably apologizing, before fading away.
“Uh.” My date’s soup spoon hovers about the bowl, mid-sip. “What the hell was that?”
Beverly chooses that moment to swing by and ask how our meal is, but instead of giving her a thumbs up, I catch her to say, “Hi Bev, can you kindly ask them to not take pictures?”
“Of course Mr. Harding. We are so sorry.”
I nod, irritated. Can barely meet Miranda’s eyes.
“What is going on?” Now she sets her spoon down and leans back to look at me anew. “Who are you?”
I open my mouth to respond, but she beats me to it.
“Wait, this is Chicago—are you in the mob?” She lowers her voice to a frantic whisper. “Like, I know all about that stuff. If you are, blink twice.”
I do not blink twice.
“Dammit, that seems like the obvious choice!” She sighs. “Well? Are you going to tell me or do I have to go ask that dude who obviously wanted your autograph?”
He chose a shitty time to come ask for it, making me feel and look like kind of a selfish asshole. What are the chances he’s ever going to bump into me again?
For real though—if I sign something for him, a line will form and I’ll be stuck here signing my name on shit instead of enjoying dinner, which would get cold and have to be put in a takeout container. I’ve been down this road before and have no interest in going there tonight.
No need to feel guilty.
You deserve privacy.
I have to repeat this over and over and will surely do so again tonight, when I’m alone again and lying in my giant bed, staring up at the ceiling in my dumb giant bedroom inside my stupid giant McMansion.
“Noah?” She’s quiet now.
“Mm?”
“So before when those people were taking pictures, they weren’t taking them of themselves?” She shifts in her chair, and I can see that she’s
uncomfortable. “I’m pretty sure they were taking them of you. Am I right?”
I swallow the piece of bread I’ve just set on my tongue, an answer to her question not finding its way out right away.
“Yes.”
She hesitates. “Why?”
Because I’m famous, except you’re the only one who hasn’t realized it, which means you’re here because you actually like me for who I am, and these fuckers have the potential to ruin the entire evening for us by being nosy.
Nope. Too harsh, can’t say it. Even though the onlookers with their prying eyes are making me nervous, and edgy, and I’m losing my patience—I still cannot say it.
“Maybe they were taking pictures of you?” I counter back, grinning.
“Why would they do that!” She laughs, amused, swirling the straw around her iced tea to occupy her hands.
“Because you’re so cute?” Oh my god, those words did not just come out of my mouth. I want to snatch them back, they feel so foreign, though the compliment did roll off my tongue pretty nicely.
Miranda stops swirling her tea around, a stunned expression filling her gorgeous face. “Did you just call me cute?”
“Yes.”
“Are you flirting with me while I’m trying to get to the bottom of this?”
It’s a mystery I can easily solve with an explanation, but now I’m having too much fun. “All I’m trying to do is get to the bottom of this glass, so I can have another one.”
“It’s iced tea,” she points out wryly, scanning the room again with her perceptive eyes. “That man over there is staring so hard I swear he wants you to notice him. He’s barely paying attention to his wife or whoever that lady is he’s with.”
Probably his wife.
I chuckle.
“Do you think this is funny?”
Wallace may have had a point when he told me, “Dude, if you stay home like a hermit and don’t go out in public, when you finally do, the media and fans will be so hungry for a picture of you it won’t be pleasant, and you’re going to hate yourself.”
He was right.
This is annoying and it sucks.
“No, I don’t think this is funny. But it happens all the time, which is why I sent my friend Wallace to get the baseball card from you.”
There, I finally fucking said it.