“We can’t…” Oddly, she looks down at her cleavage and then at me again. “I’ll just be right back and give you the dress.”
“Fuck the dress.” I don’t give a shit about the dress. But she’s already disengaging herself from me, heading towards the doorway. I know she wanted me, on the dance floor and again in the car. Now she seems to be playing hard to get after climaxing hard on my hand. I’m too much of a gentleman to point this out, though.
Maybe she just doesn’t want me in her apartment? “I could take you to a hotel. Have you ever been to the Ritz Carlton? We could get a suite—”
“I’ll bring it right down.” And with that, she’s off through the security door at speed, the loud click behind her sounding pretty final.
What am I going to do with a golden chain mail Versace, slightly worn? But she comes back down again with it hanging on a plastic hanger. She’s wearing a baggy old sweatshirt now and some yoga pants that look like they’ve seen better days. This is not an intro to something more.
I’m sure she wanted me, but I can take a hint. “Sure, no problem. Sorry if I overstepped.” I mean, I did have my hand under her dress the entire drive home. But you know, I haven’t pushed her too far. I’m sure I haven’t. I may have only met Crystal tonight, but I feel like I know her. And I don’t know if she’s embarrassed or something. But she’s not angry. Not frightened. She’s just… changed her mind. What’s worse is that seeing her all rumpled in old clothes like this has done nothing to abate my hard on.
I don’t want the goddamned dress. For a moment, I try to come up with a reason why she needs to wear it again. I know her size now; maybe I can buy her another one. Or maybe I should just walk away, seeing as she clearly doesn’t want me here.
“Keep it,” I tell her. “Call me,” I tell her. I’m not one to outstay my welcome.
“Yeah, maybe,” she says, not meeting my eye.
She’s not going to call.
I look for something to say, something to make it clear that she’s special, that I want to see her again. In the end, though, nothing comes to mind. I start up the engine and drive away. Despite my better judgment, I glance back, hoping to see her still standing there. She is just disappearing back into the building. She didn’t even wait for me to drive away.
Whatever. I don’t actually have time for this, anyway.
The following morning, I feel like death warmed over. When Maddy comes in a few minutes later, she grins at the dark circles under my eyes, making completely the wrong assumption. “Oh my God, have you been up all night? You lost your cherry, didn’t you! Oh my God! You have to tell me everything! Everything!”
I cut her off as quickly as I can but not fast enough to stop Chef Pete peeking in through the hatch. “It’s not what you think, Maddy. Go away, Pete.”
Pete ducks back into the kitchen.
“Well?” Maddy’s eyes are as big as saucers.
“I got home just before midnight. We didn’t, you know… that.”
She looks disappointed, but that doesn’t dampen her spirits for long. “I’ll do the tables, you do the floor, and tell Maddy all about it.”
I start to protest, but she turns a million-watt glare onto me. “You looked so fantastic when you left last night! I want to hear what happened!”
I flinch under her glare and escape to the cleaning cupboard. I take my time organizing the mop and bucket, but it doesn’t work for long. Maddy comes to the back and starts following me around. “Spill.”
So I tell her a bit, and it all starts tumbling out, the mansion and the people and oh-my-God the dancing. I can’t help smiling as I remember how it felt to be on his arm. And then, lying in the car, the heater blowing warm air over me, his amazing fingers pressing my thighs apart… I don’t realize that I’ve stopped talking until Maddy nudges me.
She’s bouncing up and down with excitement. “I told you he was perfect. Didn’t I tell you? It’s sooooo Prince Charming. Then what happened? He drove you home? Tell me more! Did you invite him in?”
“No.” I take a deep breath. “I ran upstairs and put on my sweats and then dashed back down to give him the dress back.”
“You did what?” Maddy looks like I’ve dumped a bucket of cold water over her, and I feel a little like that, too, just from the memory.
“I tried to give him the dress back and thanked him for a lovely evening.”
“And he said?”
“He told me to keep the dress. Then he drove away. And then I went to bed.” I try to make it sound simple, although I didn’t sleep a wink last night. Tossing and turning for hours, thinking about him. Thinking about what might have been, even if just for one night.
Maddy is just staring at me with her mouth wide open. I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen her speechless before.
I close my eyes, exhausted and yes, maybe just a little sad. But it’s only five minutes until opening, and we need to finish off. “What was I supposed to do?”
“Invite him up, of course!”
“No way! That was never going to happen.”
“Why not? You said yourself the man was sex on legs.”
“No, you said that.” I might have agreed with her, but that wasn’t the point. But I might as well tell her. She’s not going to let me off the hook. “My underwear,” I tell her, my face getting hot.
“Oh shit, those old lady panties, I forgot. But you could have nipped into the bathroom quick and changed them, right? Or just taken them off. I bet you he’d think it was hot that you weren’t wearing knickers at that big fancy party.”
“No, it would not have been hot.” She’s still not getting it. “Maddy, do you know how long it took me to get the duct tape off my breasts?”
“Oh my God, I’m sorry about that. I got some medical tape for the first aid kit, so if it happens again, we’re prepared.” Finally, the penny drops. “You didn’t invite him in because you didn’t want him to see your duct tape bra?”
“I really didn’t think that was going to make for a good first impression! He’d probably think I was some sort of kinkster, and then I’d have to break it to him that I was a virgin!”
“He might have thought that was hot.” She giggles at that and then looks serious again. “So, you sent him away? Oh my God. Did you at least get his number?”
“No.” By which I mean, no to everything. No, I didn’t get his number. No, he wouldn’t have thought duct tape breasts were hot, or at least if he does, I’m not sure I want to know about it on a first date. And especially no, I don’t want to keep talking about this conversation. The ladies knitting club is arriving any minute, and Maddy’s voice is always one notch above ‘discrete’ whether she’s talking about her shopping or her sex life.
But she won’t let up. “Okay, so we need to work out a chance meeting. You need to see him again. I bet he wants to see you, too, he just doesn’t know why you rejected him. Oh my God, I bet the man’s never been rejected in his life!”
Something like hope flares up in my chest, but I quickly dampen it down again. “He’s out of my league, Maddy. Forget it.”
“Forget it? Forget it? You have the night of your dreams with the sexiest man you will ever meet, and you didn’t pop that cherry!” I shush her as best I can. She shakes her head. “I’m not going to forget it, Crystal. You are getting laid if I have to lock the two of you into the bedroom, myself.”
Pete’s shout interrupts us. “You two planning to do any work out there?”
“Yes, Pete. Sorry, Pete.” I clear away the cleaning supplies while Maddy turns the sign on the door to open.
The bell jangles with the first customers of the day, and finally I get some peace and quiet.
By Sunday, I’m feeling a bit better and starting to wonder if he might come by and see me. It’s not really his kind of restaurant, I know, but we do a pretty good fried chicken, and I know he liked the endless coffee.
Or maybe I should try to contact him? I mean, he didn’t give me his numb
er but he did say I could call him. Although it wasn’t in a very excited tone of voice. I’m clearing up from the lunchtime rush when I pick up an abandoned Sunday paper on table 12. It’s the fashion section, full of bright smiles and events. I only really flick through it wondering if something about Mrs. Scaravelli’s charity ball would be mentioned. There were photographers there, not that I posed for any pictures, but I saw flashing cameras often enough, and Knox said it was the event of the season.
On page 17, there’s a big photograph of Knox. His eyes are bright, and his smile is lazy, like he’s got the world at his command. He’s got his arm around some beautiful woman with lush hair and a shimmery dress who is listed in the caption just as Knox’s companion. It’s not Purple-Hair-Woman, which I’m oddly pleased about, but it does help to remind me that I was just one of many rotating women in his life. But next to that is a photograph of Lido’s Loco and a headline that the most eligible bachelor was seen at a premiere event with a diner waitress.
The article doesn’t name me, and there’s only one dark photograph where, to be honest, I can barely recognize myself, but it’s clear that it’s talking about last night. How the hell did they find out who I am? And what is it to them, anyway.
A customer voice drifts across the room. “Hey, can I get some service?”
I crumple the newspaper into a ball. Then I smooth it out again and fold it flat, with his photograph on top. I slide it into my waistband, out of sight. I will have to show it to Maddy, but not just yet. I don’t want to talk about it. The article is just a stark reminder of how I fell for the one person I’m guaranteed not to have a chance with.
He doesn’t call, of course.
The story is hardly news, and there’s nothing else in the weekend papers about the billionaire dating a waitress. Not that you could really call it a date. I tell Maddy about it after she catches me rifling through other people’s trash looking for more articles about him.
“Oh my God, I forgot how hot he is,” she says, fanning herself with my newspaper after looking at the photograph I kept. “Maybe it wasn’t him who told the paparazzi. They love stories like this. Maybe someone recognized you. Or maybe one of the staff there said something, you said you were hanging out in the kitchen. Or maybe—”
“No way, Maddy. I told no one. The only person there who knew was him.”
“But why would he do that?”
“To put me in my place? Because everything is a PR opportunity? I don’t know.”
“Oh, Crystal.” She hugs me, and I take my newspaper back. I want to keep it. As a reminder not to be stupid, I tell myself, but that’s not true. Really, I just want to have a photograph of him to remember that night by, even if it’s a picture with him and the next girl in his little black book.
I spend the weekend trying to get her out of my mind. I don’t know what I expected, I guess at least a one-night stand? I don’t understand why she changed her mind at the last minute, and I really don’t understand why I care so much.
Brian shakes his head at me as I head for the heavy weights. “You’re back again?”
It’s my third morning in a row doing lifts and Brian, my personal trainer, starts pressuring me — not to do more of a workout, but to lay off the weights and tell him what’s going on. “I’ve known you for a few years, Knox, and you don’t normally push yourself this hard over a weekend, let alone three mornings in a row. You need a rest day.” He’s supposed to be spotting me, but he won’t shut up. “Is everything all right?”
“It’s fine.” I’m bench pressing almost twice my body weight, and it feels good to struggle against something so physical, something straight forward and simple. I drop the weights as delicately as I can manage and wipe the sweat dripping from my forehead. “Do you believe in soul mates?”
Brian gives me a worried look. “As in true love forever?”
“Well, I guess.” It sounds pretty stupid put like that. I’m not used to feeling stupid. “I mean someone that you know when you meet them, that they are something special.”
He smiles, and I end up turning away. He’s looking smug and I can’t bear it.
“Is that what this is? Girl trouble?” But before I blow up at him, he gets serious. “I think it can happen. But I don’t think you need to label things. What’s it matter? How’s it help?”
“I don’t know what to do,” I admit. It’s hard to get those words out. I’m usually in charge, charging ahead, working out the battle plan before most people have even worked out there’s a battle to be won. But it’s the truth; I can’t stop thinking about Crystal. She hasn’t phoned me or tried to get in touch with me at all. I even drove to her place with this stupid plan of knocking at her door and telling her I was just there to pick up the dress. Stupidest idea ever. Luckily, she wasn’t home.
“Who is she?”
“Her name’s Crystal. She’s pretty and funny and sexy and…” My words trail off. “I only spent a single evening with her, but everything about her was adorable. She’s different from anyone I’ve ever met. She’s authentic, 100 percent her, do you know what I mean?”
“Sounds like something special,” he says. “Ten squats.” No rest for the wicked.
“She really is.” My sentences get shorter as he works me out harder. “You’d think I’d get some sympathy.”
“For meeting the perfect woman? I don’t think so.”
I just shake my head.
He counts off the tenth squat. “Now, tell me. What’s the problem?”
“She’s doesn’t feel the same.”
Brian gapes at me. “Well, that must be a shock to your system.” He half laughs and then gets serious. “Are you sure you aren’t just into her because she’s not into you? The one that got away, that kind of thing?”
I don’t think that’s true. When she was pressed against me on the dance floor, I wanted her more than I’d ever wanted anyone in my life. I already felt obsessed with her in minutes. And she wanted me, too, I’m sure of it. But something changed her mind. I don’t know, maybe he’s right. Maybe I like her more because she’s hard to get.
The truth is, I don’t have time for this. The waterfront deal needs to go through next week, and we still don’t have Mrs. Scaravelli on our side. Even if I wanted to talk to Crystal, I just can’t get another free moment. Besides, she hasn’t called me or done anything to get in touch with me. It’s not like she doesn’t know who I am. It’s not like I’m hard to find.
It’s made me think, though. About Jazzmene and Sammi and the others and how maybe I’ve been a bit unfair to them, asking them out without any real intention of following up. I think about what Jazz said, about how I never once invited her to stay the night — how I never had any intention of doing so. I knew they were hoping for more, and I didn’t care, figured it was worth it to have someone hanging on my arm. Maybe that’s unfair. I mean, I don’t think I’m a user, and I’ve certainly not deserved the playboy image I have in the press, but neither have I ever really thought about how I might be hurting someone.
The next words from Brian are like a cold shower. “Hey, that’s not that waitress that was in the paper, was it?”
“What are you talking about?”
“It was in the Times, you went to some big event with a waitress from a diner in Queens. Is that what you were talking about?”
My mouth opens and closes. So she doesn’t call me, but she’s happy to talk to the society rags? Wow, did I have her pegged wrong.
Brian’s still waiting for an answer, so I just shrug. I can’t believe I just told him Crystal was my soul mate. “I’m going to do a couple of miles on the treadmill,” I tell him, anything to get out of this conversation.
Once I know I’m out of sight, I start searching my name on the NYT website, and sure enough, there it is. FROM RAGS TO RICHES: DINER WAITRESS CAPTURES PLAYBOY’S ATTENTION. Jesus.
I run at the fastest pace I can stand until the searing pain distracts me from that goddamn headline. Even then,
only once my muscles are starting to quiver do I get off the treadmill and get into the shower, setting the water to icy-cold to ensure I don’t keep stiffening at the thought of her. She’s a nubile little waitress in a chain restaurant on the rough side of town. It was a fun night. She got some free publicity out of it. But apparently, that’s all it was, and I’m certainly not going to be the one to make a fool of myself over it.
Clearly, I’ve been working too hard. I’m feeling tired, burnt out. Crystal is just a symptom of this. Once the development project is off the ground, I’ll take a vacation. It’ll make a big difference, I’m sure, and I’ll stop obsessing over waitresses with endless coffee.
By Tuesday, everyone is sick of me mooning around like a bear with a sore head. I tell them, and myself, that it’s the waterfront deal. We’ve still not gotten any further, and although I really don’t want the reminder of the charity ball, it’s clear I’m going to have to push Mrs. Scaravelli to either sign or give us a set of objections we can work with.
I pull out my phone and stab out her number. “Mrs. Scaravelli, I want a meeting,” I snap. “We need to discuss the waterfront development. I want to talk to you about how to move forward.”
There’s silence for a moment and then a heavy sigh. “Yes, you are right. I shouldn’t leave you dangling.”
I blink. Could losing my temper actually give us the breakthrough we’ve been waiting for? “So, you’re willing to talk? I can come to you. I’m free right now.” I’m not, but if it means finding out what the hell she wants, I’ll cancel everything.
She just laughs. “I don’t think that’s necessary. Tell you what, why don’t we do dinner on Friday night? You can bring that young lady of yours.”
I don’t even need to think about it. By ‘young lady’, she means Crystal. Which obviously isn’t going to happen.
“Well, I would love to come see you, obviously, but I don’t know that Crystal…”
Cherry Pie Page 5
