by Penny Reid
He nodded, abruptly pulled me into a hug, and then, just as abruptly, withdrew and dashed out the door.
I watched his retreating form for a short moment and considered the fact that I was going to have to finish that bottle of wine by myself. This wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. I had Saturdays off and could afford to sleep in. I waited until Chuck disappeared around the corner at the end of the block before returning to my waiting plate of butter chicken.
On the way back, I stepped to the side to allow the last customers to exit; their departure meant I was the only paying customer left in the restaurant. As I strolled back to my table, I decided to ask Alex to pack up the chicken and cork the wine—no need to make him stay late on my account.
However, as I neared my table, I realized that it was now occupied; well, Chuck’s seat was occupied—by Alex. My seat was empty. My steps faltered as our eyes met.
He was looking at me—looking at me like I was something to be observed, studied, and his plainly untrusting gaze seemed to grow more guarded as I approached.
When I was a few steps from my abandoned chair, I stopped and just stood there, stalled, not sure what to do. It struck me as a very odd moment. I was standing at the edge of a table where Alex was sitting. In essence, we had switched places.
“Hello,” I said.
“Hello,” he said.
My attention flickered to the table. In front of him was a plate of saag goat or lamb—impossible to tell which—with a side of mango chutney, and he’d already raided the previously untouched basket of garlic naan.
Also, he’d poured himself a glass of my wine.
I met his gaze again. The circumspection in his eyes was disconcerting. He licked his lips.
“Please have a seat.” He motioned to my untouched plate of butter chicken.
I looked at him. I looked at the wine. I looked at my plate of butter chicken. I shrugged.
“Sure. Why not?”
I sat, placed the napkin on my lap, and took a generous bite of the chicken and jasmine rice. It was, as usual, a delicious replacement for physical contact, my comfort food.
I glanced at Alex again. He also was delicious—delicious and watching me as though I were not delicious. In fact, his expression made me feel rather fetid. My heart rate increased inexplicably. I felt like a skittish rabbit. This was noteworthy, as I usually felt like an optimistic octopus.
“How is your butter chicken, Sandra?”
I started, my fork suspended in the air for a beat, but I quickly recovered. “How do you know my name, Alex?”
“Your credit card, Sandra. I ring up your tab with it every Friday night.”
“Oh.” I frowned at him. Something was just off about him. He seemed to dislike me, but here he was having dinner with me, uninvited. I wasn’t used to people disliking me. Hmm…curious, that. “I’m not here every Friday night.”
“Fine then, you’re here every other Friday night.”
I ignored his last comment. “The butter chicken is quite good, thank you. How is your saag goat?”
“It’s saag lamb, and it’s delicious.”
I almost choked on my chicken when he said delicious; wondered if he could read my mind. His voice made everything sound delicious.
“That’s excellent news, Alex. So, Alex, why don’t you tell me about yourself?”
He smiled, but the smile did nothing to settle my apprehension. If anything, my heart rate increased from skittish rabbit to frightened rabbit having a minor coronary.
Curiouser and curiouser!
“What do you wish to know, Sandra?”
“First of all, stop saying my name. It’s creeping me out.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I never told you my name.”
“And?”
I ignored his question. “Secondly, why don’t we start with your parents.”
“My parents.” His tone was flat.
“Yes, tell me about your parents.”
“Certainly.” He wiped his hands on his napkin and leaned back in the booth; apparently, he was relaxed. “My parents were Romanian circus performers. I grew up in the circus as part of the act.”
I stared at him. He stared at me. I knew he was lying. The omnipresent caution in his eyes was now somehow altered by a flicker of emotion. I thought it resembled amusement, but he was difficult to read.
I shook my head once, placed my fork on the plate, and leaned back in my seat. I surveyed him. The side of his mouth hitched slightly; it did nothing to thaw his features.
“That’s not true.” I said matter-of-factly.
His smile grew, was plainly sincere, yet it lacked warmth. “You’re right. It’s not true.”
I studied him for a long moment before I asked the obvious question. “Why did you say it then?”
“Because you make men cry.”
I believe my eyes bulged. He’d surprised me. Score one point for Alex.
“Ah. That.” I nodded, reached for my glass of wine. “You found me out. I’m a man-eater.” I took a healthy gulp.
“Well, that’s good news.”
I choked, coughed, but managed by sheer luck to keep from spewing red wine all over the table. My eyes bulged further. Did Alex the waiter just turn my man-eater comment into a double entendre? Did that actually occur?
How very scandalous!
“Drink some water.” He lifted his chin and indicated my neglected water even as he poured more wine into my glass.
After two large swallows of water, I felt capable of speaking, though my voice was raspier than usual. “Alex, that was quite a naughty thing to say.”
The carefulness in his gaze wavered as a slow, decidedly salacious grin spread from his mouth to his eyes. I held my breath. When he smiled, actually smiled, he looked a bit more innocent and devious at the same time, boyish and rakish. It was devastating and made me feel like a teenager with a crush on the bad boy in high school.
I suddenly wanted to kiss him.
I reached for my wine glass instead and finished half of it while I watched him over the rim.
At last, he broke the silence and sounded truly pleased with himself. “It was naughty, wasn’t it?”
I nodded, set the glass down. “Was that your goal?”
His eyes narrowed at my question. “Why do you make men cry?”
I reached for my wine glass again, took another swallow. “Do I make men cry?”
“Yes, every other Friday night. Would you care to hear my theories?”
“You have more than one theory?”
“Do you ever respond to a question without asking another question?”
“Does it bother you?”
“No. But it does confirm my hypothesis.”
“What hypothesis?”
He let out a heavy sigh, and with it, all the residual warmth from our flirty banter evaporated. “You’re a shrink,” he said. He might as well have accused me of being a traitor or a murderer or a Kardashian.
I finished my glass of wine and he, reaching over the table, swiftly refilled it. Peripherally, I noticed that he hadn’t yet touched his wine. “Why do you think I’m a shrink?”
He frowned again, his eyes guarded. “In the beginning, I thought you must be bringing these men in here to break up with them. But then these encounters became too frequent. Naturally, I considered the possibility that these men worked for you and you brought them here to fire them. I thought that perhaps you were their boss and you’d chosen this restaurant as the place to let them go, deliver the bad news.”
“But you ruled that out.” I sipped my wine then gulped it, held the glass in both hands as though it might protect me. I didn’t know why I did this.
He nodded once. “From time to time, I overheard pieces of your conversations, and realized you didn’t know these men. I considered the possibility that you were delivering some other kind of bad news—like maybe they had cancer or had lost a loved one.”
“But you ruled that
out too.” I finished another glass. He motioned for me to set it on the table; I did as he silently instructed. He refilled it, his attention fixed on the wine bottle and my glass.
“You didn’t seem to know these men, at least not very well. Then it became obvious that this was one of the first times you’d actually sat and talked with them, so I figured you were meeting new clients here. But that didn’t explain why you made them all cry.”
“Ah, yes; you have a point there.” My assenting head bob may have been more exaggerated than I would have liked. I was feeling the effects of my two rapidly drunk glasses of wine.
“Why do you do it?” His tone was sharp, as were his eyes as they moved from the bottle to me. In fact, he was so angry that he looked almost dangerous.
Sad, that. He had such a handsome face when he allowed himself to smile. But then—I tipsily admitted—dangerous, angry waiter Alex was also mighty fine.
Mighty fine, indubitably.
“I don’t do it on purpose.”
“Really?” He didn’t believe me.
“No. I don’t.” I held his granite gaze. “I don’t like it when they cry. It’s why I schedule these first dates for so late in the evening.”
His hostile façade cracked, his eyebrows tugged low over his eyes like thick, shadowy unhappiness umbrellas. “Wait, what? Dates? These are dates? Are you kidding me?”
I nodded despondently, but it felt more like an embarrassing almost-falling-asleep head bob. Copious amounts of red wine on an empty stomach will do that to a girl who hasn’t been kissed in over two years. “Yes. Dates. First dates. Did you think these men were my patients?”
His stare was piercing, as though he were attempting to reach into my head and read the truth from the gray matter of my brain. After a prolonged moment, he expelled a heavy breath. “So…you’re a psychiatrist?”
I nodded into my half-empty third glass of wine, my butter chicken long forgotten. “I am a psychiatrist.”
“You’re a psychiatrist who makes her dates cry.”
I frowned at him, at the edge in his voice that sounded accusatory. “Wait a minute, do you think I do it on purpose? Do you think I like ending each date with a goodbye cry instead of a goodbye kiss?” I may have slurred the word kiss. I couldn’t be sure.
Regardless, my questions were met with flinty silence, the corner of his mouth turned up in disbelief. But he looked interested, so I continued.
“Do you want to know how long it’s been since I was kissed? Guess!” I flicked my hand in his direction, then slapped it on the table. He didn’t flinch. “Two years,” I said.
I may have slurred the word years. I couldn’t be sure.
“Two…years. Actually, it’s been more than two years. It’s been two years and quite a few months, like maybe ten months, which makes it almost three years. And you know what? The last kiss was….” I frowned and shook my head in disgust at the memory of my last kiss. I leaned forward and whispered my next words, letting him in on the secret of my nonexistent sex life. “It wasn’t a good kiss.”
His lips stiffened, tugged ever so slightly to the right. I was tipsy, but I didn’t miss the way his eyes moved to my mouth during my tirade. He was probably looking for lip fungus or some other physical manifestation to explain my kiss-dearth.
“And I’m a good kisser, dammit!” I gripped my wine glass and finished it with two large swallows, relishing in the delightful vertigo settling behind my eyes and making my gums tingle. I set the empty goblet on the table and attempted to level him with a penetrating gaze, but instead I found myself struggling to keep my eyes from crossing. “And I don’t have a lip fungus, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
His attention abruptly moved from my mouth to my eyes. “I wasn’t wondering whether you had a lip fungus, but thank you for getting that awkward conversation out of the way.”
“You’re welcome!” I scooted to the end of the booth. Everything looked a little blurry. The room rocked as I stood and proclaimed, “I have to go pee!”
“Bathrooms are behind….”
“I know where the bathrooms are, Alex.” I squinted at him, my feet stumbled, and I inadvertently did a jazz square as I tried to remain upright. “I do take all my first dates here, you know. Granted, they usually leave before the entrée. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
I half bowed for no reason in particular and walked to the ladies’ room. I felt satisfied in my admonishment of the pretentious upstart. How dare he? How dare he accuse me of making my dates cry on purpose? How dare he be so masculine, and strong, and sexily somber? How dare he stare at my lips and warm my internal organs to inferno levels of hotness. How dare his magma voice melt ice, steel, and my femme innards. How dare he…?
Wait.
I blinked, halted, backed up two steps, and peered into the kitchen. It was dark. I thought about that for a minute, and came to the conclusion that the kitchen was closed and the cook and the manager and the dishwasher had gone home. I shrugged for no one’s benefit then continued on my way to the bathroom.
I flipped on the light, closed and locked the door, and did my business, all while trying and failing to reignite my indignation. Instead, I settled on the words masculine, strong, and sexily somber. Then I recalled the word kiss.
Mmm…kiss.
I washed my hands absentmindedly and scanned my appearance. My awesome strapless red dress still looked fantastic, and even my bleary eyes could tell that it hugged my body in all the right places girls are told men like to look.
I winked at myself in the mirror, as I was prone to do. “Hey, sexy lady, I’m not drunk, I’m just intoxicated by you.”
My mirror theater provoked a half laugh, half moan, and I covered my face with my hands.
The dress, paired with a padded push up bra, should have guaranteed me a night filled with torrid passion. It was why I’d purchased it. Alas, and to my inner orgasm enthusiast’s infinite sexual frustration, the hottest thing that happened so far was a hand squeeze from Chuck the chuckling—then sobbing—honeydew.
Glancing up, I noted that my teeth were now slightly green due to the consumption of red wine. For no discernible reason, I took a paper towel and scrubbed at my teeth until they appeared whiter. I often did this, especially when intoxicated.
Satisfied, I nodded once at my reflection, and stumbled out of the single stall bathroom into the small square space at the back of the restaurant. I managed three steps before I realized that the path leading to the front of the restaurant was blocked by Alex.
And I discovered this fact by bodily colliding into Alex’s chest.
CHAPTER 2
HIS HANDS GRIPPED my waist—not my arms, which my pickled brain thought was noteworthy—and dually steadied and unsettled me with his nearness. His proximity and touch caused a zing—yes, a zing—from the back of my neck to my fingertips and to my heretofore neglected womanly pelvic region. The heat of his hands bled through the thin material of my dress, settled just above my hips, and this sensation, paired with the zing, sobered me slightly.
I hadn’t experienced a zing with a man—young or old—in a very, very long time.
“Well, h-hello,” I stuttered, lifting my eyes until they found his, which were once again singularly focused on my mouth. A new zing sailed southward past my female equipment to my tiptoes.
Ah, how I missed the zing!
We stood silent, inches from each other, sharing the same breath.
“Three years is a long time.” His voice was achingly seductive.
I frowned because I was confused, but I managed to whisper, “Yes. And fettuccini noodles are too thick.”
He frowned, but his attention didn’t waver from my lips. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“I don’t know. You said three years is a long time. I thought we were sharing random opinions.”
Alex laughed—it sounded a bit nervous, but I couldn’t be sure—and then he shook his head. “Sandra, what do you say? I think it’
s well past time you had a kiss.” His eyes flickered to mine. I noted they were still guarded, impossible mature, but they were also heated, and every shade of licentious lapis imaginable.
In a word, delightful.
I licked my lips, gathered a deep breath through my nose, and considered his offer.
He was maybe twenty-three; more likely, he was twenty-two. That was six years younger than my twenty-eight. The six years between twenty-two and twenty-eight was a vast minefield of life experience and a thick forest of emotional maturity.
We were on different emotion planets.
I was looking for the guy. I was looking for my life partner. I wasn’t looking for a dangerous but delicious young waiter with a chip on his shoulder.
Then again…
Alex was manlicious in a way that I rarely encountered. And he wanted to kiss me. And he wasn’t crying. Triple bonus.
Okay, I thought, psyching myself up, yes, let’s do this. Let’s go wild, just this once. Kiss the boy. Kiss the boy and round the bases. Look for your life partner tomorrow.
Before I lost my nerve, I kissed him.
Zing.
It was brief, sudden, a drive-by kiss, and I savored his stunned soft mouth. Then I leaned just my head away and glanced at him. He had such a great mouth, and he’d parted it slightly in surprise.
I nodded. “Okay, just one more.” I kissed him again, fast but with more pressure this time.
Zing!
Then, reluctantly, I leaned away again and said, “Just one more kiss after this….”
He stopped my rambling by mouthlesting me; meaning, he affixed his lips on mine and kissed me good and thoroughly.
ZING!
And when I say he kissed me, I mean a thick, urgent tongue invasion—biting, sucking, and stroking. As he assaulted me in the best way possible, I was vaguely aware that he’d backed me into and against the corner of the small alcove, just under the stairs. His feet braced apart and his body towered over mine, filling every inch of available space; his fingers dug into my side and back in a way that felt aggressive.
