Her Valentine Fantasy. Nancy Warren
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anywhere. She was gorgeous, in a blue slip of a dress that showed off her curves, but not in a hey, I’m hot, do me sort of way. More like a hint of sexiness that kept men wondering. Her hair was neither blond nor brown. It was an intriguing mix of the two. Her eyes were a clear gray with hints of blue and green that reminded him of the Pacific Northwest skies.
What was she doing with that dick? That girl and her date went together like ice cream and cod liver oil.
He figured these two for a first date. Probably met online. Ever since Benedict got voted Best Place for a Romantic Date in Seattle Magazine there had been more of them than ever. He’d seen plenty of dot-com first dates be wildly successful. He’d seen plenty more die on the vine. This one was dead before it started. Every time he approached their table the conversation was more stilted than the last time. The dude was completely self-involved and about as interesting as belly-button lint.
While the woman— Normally, he barely noticed the actual guests. They were numbers: seat one, table 14. If he thought of them individually it was in relation to their food order. Seat one was the halibut, two was the garlic allergy, that kind of thing. But this woman had caught his attention from the second she’d walked in, all long legs and big eyes that glanced around her with keen interest. He’d felt a buzz of energy coming from her. He’d never believed in sexual magnetism—thought it was a stupid term for horniness—but this woman truly drew him to her and he couldn’t resist any more than an iron filing could resist a super-magnet.
She’d started out lively and fun but had slowly given up as the bore kept talking over her.
He’d caught her eye a time or two and he’d resisted the urge to boot the loser out of there, sit down across from her and show her how a real date acted.
Except he wasn’t her date. He was her waiter for the evening and apart from singeing his eyeballs every time he looked at her, which he couldn’t help, he was the perfect waiter. Although he had to wonder.
Really? What were they thinking? Valentine’s Day was a week away. If he were ever asked his advice, based on his years as a professional voyeur, he’d say never try to start a relationship in early February. Too much pressure with the fourteenth looming like the Day of Doom.
The two seemed to be done with dinner, so he waited for the bore to finish another anecdote where he was the hero of his office, but before he could offer dessert the guy was pushing back his chair.
“Where’s the bathroom?” he asked Sam, who pointed the way. Guy already had his cell phone out before he’d gone three steps.
Which left Beauty alone with no bore. He stepped up to the table. How can you stand that douche? is what he wanted to say. What actually came out of his mouth was, “How are you enjoying your evening?” As he spoke, he picked up the bottle of wine and topped off her glass.
“The food is excellent,” she said leaving out any mention of her date. And who wouldn’t? “What did the chef put in the sauce over those scallops?”
He shook his head. “If he told me, he’d have to kill me.”
When she laughed he felt that energy again, drawing him in. “Well, please tell him how much I enjoyed them.” She glanced around, “The decor is amazing, too. Contemporary, but not cold and hard like some restaurants are. You know, all concrete and steel and glass?”
He nodded. Recalling how he’d said practically that very same thing to his designer.
“This place feels warm and relaxed while still modern.” She looked around again with an almost professional eye. “And it’s a good size for functions.”
He wondered if she was a restaurant critic, but he knew all the local ones. She could be from out of town, but nah, critics ordered a bunch of stuff and always tasted everything their companion ordered. No way she was a critic.
He should move on but no one in his section seemed to need him. He said, “First time here?”
“Yes.”
If he caught one of his staff getting too personal with a customer, he’d have some choice words to deliver. He couldn’t stop himself asking, “First date?”
Her eyes widened. “Yes. How did you know?”
Everything from body language to her guy running off to the men’s room with his cell phone in hand were pretty big clues. But he only said, “You get a feel for these things.”
She surveyed the room. “You mean you can tell what’s between people you’ve never even seen before from the way they behave in a restaurant?”
“Not always, but yeah, sometimes.” He glanced around himself. “Those two? At the table by the window, on your left.” He indicated his head so he wasn’t pointing. Waited until she had them in her sights and nodded. “They just got engaged. Watch her. See how she keeps lifting her left hand? Looks like Tourette’s but really she’s watching the ring on her finger. See how shiny it is? Barely worn.”
“Wow.” She watched for a moment and grinned. “Not Tourette’s exactly, although she’s doing a lot with her left hand. And I don’t think she’s left-handed.”
“You’re catching on.”
And while she was busy watching other customers, he had a chance to watch her. Her pretty face, those big eyes that were studying the other diners. She turned back.
“Okay, what’s the story on the older couple beside the wall of water?”
He followed her gaze. Saw a miserable-looking pair who were barely speaking to each other. Their clothes were inexpensive and it seemed as though they’d be much happier dining at home or at a family restaurant. He watched the body language for a moment.
“Wedding anniversary. Probably twenty-fifth or thirtieth. My guess is that somebody gave them a gift certificate here as an anniversary present when they’d have preferred a new set of towels. They don’t like fancy food, think fine dining is a waste of hard-earned money and, after all these years being married, don’t have much left to say to each other.”
“Depressing. But believable.”
“I’m only telling you what I guess. I could be wrong. Maybe normally they’re the happiest couple in town, but they just buried Grandma.”
“Your first story seems more real.” She looked around some more. “Okay, what about the foursome in the middle of the room. Older couple and a younger couple?”
He barely glanced at the table in question. “Easy. He’s a rich business guy, very successful. He and the wife spend six weeks a year golfing in Palm Springs. That’s their only daughter. The young guy is the boyfriend the parents don’t think is good enough.”
“Who are you, Sherlock Holmes?”
He grinned at her. “Nope. They’re regulars.”
She laughed, enjoying his teasing.
He said, “You’re not the only one not having the greatest evening.”
She ran a finger around the stem of her wineglass, which he found ridiculously sexy. “I should have made it a coffee. Dinner’s too much of a commitment for a first date.”
“I agree. I always go with the coffee.”
She looked up. “Oh, are you—” Then she stopped herself.
“Single?” He finished her question for her in the direction he hoped it had been headed. “Yeah. I am.”
He wanted to say something more. Ask her out?
And then the douche returned. Since Sam was hanging around the table, he said, “Allow me to tempt you with Chef’s special dessert tonight. He’s calling it Valentine Fantasy. It’s made with Valrhona chocolate and fresh cream and a hint of raspberry. He says it tastes like sex.” Because he couldn’t help himself—it was that iron filing thing again—he caught her eye when he said that