The Fortunate Ones

by R.S. Grey

  “Do you want to hang out tonight? Like a date?”

  Shit. Shit. Shit. For a while, I’ve been getting the feeling that Ian is looking for something a little more serious, and that question confirms it.

  “Sorry. I have to work,” I say, both relived to have an excuse and sad to have to turn him down. Ian is nice, even if his room at the co-op smells like a coffee roaster exploded inside of it and his greatest ambition in life is to become an “influencer” on Instagram. I just don’t want a boyfriend at the moment. I’m actively trying to find a new position as an au pair or a tutor and chances are that when I do find one, I’ll be forced to relocate for it. Ian knows this, and he’s agreed to keep things light, but now I’m wondering if I need to take a step back.

  When we arrive at the co-op, I make sure to thank him profusely for the ride and even offer him the extra cookie I stole from the charity luncheon. I was going to enjoy it after work—maybe with some cheap wine—but giving it to him helps assuage my guilt over potentially leading him on.

  Damn. I wanted that cookie. Boys suck.

  I don’t remember that my sister texted me back until I’m upstairs in my room getting ready for my shift. I smooth down the silky material of my black cocktail dress and slide into some block-heeled black sandals before I reach for my phone and open our conversation.

  His name jumps out at me in ALL CAPS, and my stomach turns over in anticipation.

  I read the last few texts again, just to confirm it says what I’m hoping it does.

  ELLIE: Oh! I almost forgot! Guess who’s coming in for dinner tonight.

  BROOKE: Who?

  ELLIE: JAMES ASHWOOD.

  CHAPTER THREE

  James Ashwood is celebrating. That’s what the note says by his reservation. He’s requested a table near the fireplace for him and 10 guests. There will be champagne and multiple courses, and Brian has assigned three servers to the table so every need can be met right away. When I first arrived for my shift, the chef called an all-hands meeting just to go over his table specifically. The gist: don’t fuck it up.

  I’m standing behind the podium now, waiting for the first dinner guests to start arriving. It’s 5:30 PM, and James’ reservation is at 7:00 PM—an hour and a half that will feel like an eternity. Unlike when I work in the cabana, shifts in here tend to drag because I’m not constantly running around like a chicken with my head cut off. My job is to stand behind the podium in a semi-revealing yet sophisticated cocktail dress and greet guests as they walk in. I smile and offer up a polite hello then toss in a bit of tasteful small talk as I lead them on a short walk to their table. Easy peasy. In total, it takes about 30 seconds, maybe a minute if their table is across the dining room.

  I use the time between guests to check my email. The tutoring agency should be getting back to me soon. They’ve informed me that positions are tight at the moment, but I have stellar references and a great education. The problem, I know, lies in the requisite headshot sitting at the bottom of my application. I wish I could add a little caption underneath that reads, Hey, by the way, I’m not trying to sleep with your husband.

  “Hey! Brooke, right?”

  I shove my phone beneath the podium with superhuman speed, slightly embarrassed to have been caught using it during my shift. Brian has threatened to chop fingers off if he catches us on them around the members. Fortunately, when I glance up, it’s just one of the club’s bartenders standing on the other side of the podium. I hardly recognize him outside of his usual post behind the dining room’s mahogany bar, but his silver tie provides a helpful reminder. All the bartenders wear them. Beside it, his nametag proclaims him to be Garrett.

  “Hey, yeah.” I smile. “What’s up?”

  I glance to my right, where the dining room sprawls out before me. Surely I haven’t already done something wrong. If I have, Ellie is going to kill me.

  His smile turns crooked as he inches closer to the podium and lowers his voice.

  “I know this is last minute, and you don’t even know me, but I was wondering if you might be able to help me out.”

  My smile fades slightly. This dude is about to ask me to stay late. I can feel the request seeping out of his pores. He’s going to beg, I know it, and then, of course, he does. Apparently Garrett has a “hot date” that he “really can’t miss”. It’s with a woman he’s been pursuing for months, and she’s finally giving him the time of day. I feel for him, I do, but closing is for the birds, and I have plans with some cheap wine and a cookie—oh, that’s right. I gave away my only excuse. What is it with men today?

  “Garrett, I’d love to help you out, but—”

  “Brooke, please. I’ll pick up a shift for you! You name the day and I’ll do it!”

  It’s sweet of him to offer, but somehow I don’t think our members would enjoy seeing him traipse around the pool in a pleated skirt quite as much as he thinks. Unfortunately, I’d have to help him out with no promise of anything in return. Who does he think I am, Mother freaking Teresa?

  But seeing a grown man beg is kind of awkward, and there are members walking in the door behind him. I don’t want him to cause a scene, so before I fully realize what I’m doing, I agree and shoo him back to the bar.

  “You’re the best! Thank you!”

  As it turns out, I am not the best. I am a sad sap, which Ellie confirms when I ask her what closing duties entail.

  ELLIE: NO! Why did you agree?! You need to get out of that ASAP. Do you have any idea what that means?

  I have no clue. Ellie does though, and she wastes no time informing me over a string of texts.

  Basically, the club closes at 10 PM, but in reality, it closes when the last member decides to leave, and for top-paying members—the men and women whose perks extend well beyond the standard service—the doors are open 24/7.

  ELLIE: You’re going to be there all night! Tell Garrett to go screw himself! I bet he doesn’t even have a date!

  I glance up and lock eyes with Garrett behind the bar. He layers his hands over his heart and mouths another thank-you. I want to heed Ellie’s directions, but the guy seems earnest, and what if he actually is going on a date? What if it’s his potential soul mate? I’m selfish, but standing in the way of love just seems evil.

  I wave back to him and toss my phone back beneath the podium with a grumble. The next time there’s a break in guests, I head to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. Apparently, it’s going to be a long night.

  I’m not away from my post for more than a minute, and yet by the time I step back into the dining room, I spot the James Ashwood and his guests waiting at an empty hostess podium.

  “Oh come on!” I hiss under my breath.

  I pick up my pace right away, all but running across the room. Coffee spills across the front of my dress, but there’s no time to worry about the smell of burning flesh because James Ashwood is watching me (AHHH!), and I’m watching Brian as he darts across the room in a mad dash to get to the podium. If he gets there before I do, I might as well clear out my locker right now…which wouldn’t be so bad considering I hate this place, but I don’t have another job. I can’t get fired yet.

  Thankfully, the spare tire around Brian’s waist slows him down more than my high heels. I make it to the podium a few seconds before him.

  “Good evening,” I say, embarrassed by how exerted I am.

  I work out, so I shouldn’t be breathing like some sort of creepy man hovering over people’s shoulders on the bus, but I attribute it to nerves. James Ashwood is standing a few feet away, and I’m smiling at him while the skin on my stomach sizzles.

  Up close, he exudes a sort of aggressive authority, a way of standing with his broad shoulders pushed back and his chin lifted high. He’s used to moving through life unchecked, that much is clear.

  “Are you all right?” he asks, pointing down at my cup. “Your coffee’s half gone.”

  I glance down at my now-soaked dress and on cue, a few drops of coffee hit the floor. “Oh, y
eah…” I laugh awkwardly. “I prefer to look at it as half full.”

  “Mr. Ashwood!” Brian says as he screeches to a halt behind me. “I’m so sorry for the wait!”

  He shakes his head. “It’s not a problem. Your hostess was just helping us.”

  It’s here that I should probably clarify that I’ve only ever seen James Ashwood from afar. Maybe someday I’ll stop referring to him by both his first and last name, but for now—and honestly, probably for always—he will remain James Ashwood. Without a doubt, he falls into the George Clooney category of men. From polling the women around the club, there isn’t a single person walking around here with two X chromosomes who doesn’t find him extremely attractive.

  In the last month, I’ve heard numerous over-the-top phrases uttered about him.

  From Janine, the sous chef in the kitchen: “He’s so hot I want to bake him into a pie and sit on it.”

  From Hannah, one of the tennis pros: “His ass is like a perfect eclipse—you’ll go blind if you stare directly at it.”

  I want to be impervious to his charms and looks because he seems like a royal pain in the ass, what with the cars, and the suits, and that soul-stealing smile he’s aiming at one of his dinner dates right now. They’re quite a group. Altogether, they could star in a 90210-esque drama about beautiful young people. There’s a perky Asian girl with cropped black hair, a svelte blonde with swoon-worthy red lipstick, a redhead with boobs they can probably make out from the space station, and a gaggle of men that compliment them well. I plan on getting a better look at them all as I lead their group to their table near the fireplace, but Brian steps forward and announces that he’ll be taking them instead. Apparently, he doesn’t trust my line-leading abilities, or maybe he’s mad that I left my post for half a second.

  I watch the backs of their shiny, privileged heads as they step past the podium. James is flanked by Nunga-Nunga Ginger and Svelte Blonde as he makes his way through the dining room, and I know for him, our short exchange is already forgotten.

  Their servers are already in place, ready to start wine service. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but one of them presents him with a bottle of high-priced champagne. He nods and waves for his guests to claim their seats. I’m still staring, waiting for something. I’m not sure what it is until he glances back and his eyes meet mine across the dining room.

  A ton of bricks fall on my chest.

  I’m paralyzed.

  And then he smiles, and it’s small, hidden, like we’re both in on a private joke, but there’s no time to read into it. His attention sweeps back to his guests and there’s a family walking up to the podium, ready to be seated. I shake my head. Clear my throat. Blink—again—and then force a wide smile for the members in front of me.

  “Good morn—evening. Have you reservated…I mean, do you have a reservation?”

  I use the next few hours during my shift to dissect James Ashwood, as if by breaking him down into chewable parts, he’ll be easier to assess and subsequently dismiss. I suspect most of his power, like mine, comes from his hair. It seems odd, I know. There are few men known strictly for their locks. Fabio is, of course, one of them, but rest assured, the two have nothing in common. James’ short hair is a rich, dark brown with a natural wave that’s almost boyish, but with a touch of pomade the strands stay put in a business-friendly, panty-dropping look.

  Separate from “the hair”, there’s his bone structure: firm jaw, straight nose. It makes me want to vomit in my mouth to say his face could be chiseled from marble, but it’s the only way I can convey JUST HOW BEAUTIFULLY PROPORTIONED THIS MAN IS! Roll over in your grave, Michelangelo. See if I care.

  I suspect his eyes are brown, but I feel like if I were ever close enough to notice the intricacies of his irises, I’d pass out before I could study them. As much as I’d love to go into detail about the rest of him, I can’t because I don’t know the details. His body definitely seems to be in good shape under his suits, but maybe that’s the magic of expensive tailoring. He’s definitely tall, but I couldn’t rattle off an exact figure to save my life. Maybe one day I’ll be with him when he robs a convenience store and I can use the ruler taped by the door to confirm whether he’s 6’0’’ or a little over.

  I’m not satisfied. I want details, so I do what any responsible person would do: I try to Google him during my shift. I’m knee-deep in my investigation when Marissa joins me at the podium.

  “What are you doing?” she asks, peering down at my phone. “Why are you looking at suits on Dolce & Gabbana’s website?”

  I hold up the medium-blue suit for her to inspect. “Do you think James is wearing that right now?”

  She snorts. “The dude buys custom. I hear he has a suit guy he flies in from Italy once a quarter.”

  I narrow my eyes in disbelief. “Who told you that?”

  “Larry, from the kitchen.”

  “Oh, does ‘Larry from the kitchen’ know a lot about designer suits?”

  “Maybe he moonlights at a dry cleaners? I dunno, but the suit guy thing seems plausible.”

  I shrug and slide my phone back to its hiding spot. “You’re right. I guess it doesn’t really matter anyway.”

  “Are you that bored?”

  Yes. Out of my mind. It’s 9:00 PM, so most of the diners have long since packed in the carbs and gone home. A few stragglers remain, and of course, James’ entire group is still going strong. I’ve lost track of how many bottles of champagne they’ve managed to uncork. Let’s just say the club’s wine cellar might need to be restocked in the morning.

  “Well at least we’re both off soon. Let’s go get a beer.”

  I level her with a death stare. “I wish, but Garrett somehow convinced me to cover for him.”

  She looks confused. “But Garrett is scheduled to close tonight…”

  “Yep. Kill me now.”

  My misery does not find company with Marissa. She cracks up like I’ve said something hi-larious then claps her hand on the podium and tells me I’m a poor schmuck before she walks away.

  “I’ll remember that!” I call out after her.

  She waves over her shoulder. “Have fun burning the midnight oil!”

  I go back to Googling designer suits so I don’t fall asleep standing up. Another two groups of diners stroll out, a little obnoxious and a lot tipsy. Brian sees me twiddling my thumbs and instructs me to head back and help roll silverware for tomorrow’s lunch service. With pleasure.

  I spend an hour in the employee break room, divvying up knives and forks, and in that time, I add another quote to my collection.

  “Do you think James Ashwood has his suits custom made?” I ask the coworker assembling cutlery with me.

  From Yvonne, a member of the kitchen staff: “I don’t care where he buys ’em as long as I know where the zipper is.”

  Alrighty then.

  I finish up the rest of my closing duties and then head to check on Brian. Last time I saw him, he was on his way to confirm that James’ group had everything they needed, but that was at least an hour ago. I’ve been chatting with the kitchen staff long enough that the dining room should be empty. PLEASE GOD, LET IT BE EMPTY. I want to go home and sleep before I have to wake up and do this all over again.

  The club’s chandeliers are set to dim continuously during dinnertime so that guests arriving at 5:30 PM are illuminated much more than those rolling in around 8:00. Now, as I leave the kitchen, the room is the darkest I’ve ever seen it. All the tea candles have been extinguished, and the hallway light that usually illuminates the hostess podium is off. Brian must have finished my closing duties for me, which means I’m that much closer to freedom.

  I step into the dining room, prepared to make a beeline for the podium, grab my phone and purse, and get the hell out of this place before anyone can assign me last-minute duties. A quick glance toward the fireplace confirms that James’ group is gone, and the servers assigned to his table made quick work of the aftermath. It’s almost l
ike he was never there at all, except I have the open Google search on my phone to prove he was.

  I make it another few steps before the sound of a glass being put down on the bar catches my attention. I whip my gaze across the space and there he sits.

  Alone at the bar.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  His rich brown hair glows beneath the dim, warm light, and his elbows are resting on the bar as his thumb brushes back and forth across the brim of a whiskey glass. I stand frozen as he pauses and takes a slow sip.

  I don’t think he knows I’m here. I glance back to the kitchen door and then across to the podium. I’m not supposed to leave until the last member is gone, I get that, but being here right now feels like an invasion of his privacy. Where is Brian when I need him? Surely the bartenders didn’t leave James Ashwood to fend for himself? Dear god, did he have to pour his own drink? Brian will never let us hear the end of it. There will be 50 all-hands-on-deck meetings, maybe more.

  I chew on my lip, willing Brian to magically appear. I need to know what I’m supposed to do here. James doesn’t look like he wants company, but I don’t want to get fired. I could ask him if he needs anything, but that’s not my job. Where is the bartender? His waiter? How about a freaking bus boy?

  I take a small step toward the podium, contemplating breaking out in a full sprint, but his voice catches me before I can.

  “Come have a seat.”

  I freeze like a deer caught in headlights, and then I do the very ridiculous, very sitcom move of glancing over my shoulder to confirm that he is in fact talking to me.

  There’s no one else in the room.

  I turn back to him. He’s taking another sip of his drink. I clear my throat and try to speak without conveying how much he’s caught me off guard.