someone had approached the table, and second, because the voice was embarrassingly familiar. “Marla, your server, told me that someone at this table asked about the designer.” He was standing behind my chair, and I couldn’t see his face. I could see his face if I turned around, but I didn’t want to turn around. I wanted him to go away.
My crazy client spoke up when I didn’t. He looked at me pointedly. “Didn’t I hear you ask something about a designer?” I gave Leonard a tight smile and turned slightly in my seat so that I could see the person standing behind me.
“That would be me.” I was very proud of the way I kept my composure when I actually saw his face. It was him! The man that I’d slept with—excuse me, had sex with—the night of my divorce party. Leave it to me to run into a one-night stand at a business lunch. I could tell that he remembered me by the slight smirk on his face. The other men sitting at the table probably thought that he was smiling politely, but I knew he was smirking.
He had on a denim chef’s coat with CHEF NICK stitched across the left side. He didn’t look like a chef. Most of the chefs that I had seen on TV had quite a bit more around the midsection. And though his midsection was covered by the coat, I vaguely recalled that he looked aww-ight with his shirt off.
“I asked the waitress if she knew the name of the designer.” He smirked a little more.
“That would be me. Nick Nathaniel, owner and executive chef of Nathaniel’s.”
So! I hoped he didn’t think I was impressed I was, but I hoped he didn’t think so.
“Oh…” I said disinterestedly. “Well, thanks.” I turned back to the others and prayed that he knew a brush-off when he got one. Apparently, he didn’t. I could hear the smirk in his voice when he spoke again.
“But I do have the name of an excellent designer if you need one. She’s helped me with several other projects. If you’d like to leave your number with me, I’ll pass it on.” The men at the table gave each other knowing glances. I spoke to him without looking, rather rudely I hoped.
“No, thank you.” He had the audacity to put his hand on the back of my chair, never mind that his hands had touched things way more personal than my chair.
“You look very familiar.” He kept his hand on my chair but moved slightly to the right so that he was in my peripheral vision. I had no choice but to smile at him, but I kept it tight.
“I get that a lot,” I said, then turned pointedly back to the men at the table, who at that point appeared to be very interested in the limited exchange between myself and the owner of the establishment. But he (the owner of the establishment) wouldn’t let it go.
“No, really…There’s something very familiar about you.” I turned around to give him a death stare, but he looked really puzzled. Either he was a chef, a restaurateur, and a very accomplished actor, or, it suddenly occurred to me, he just might not remember me. I was torn between being relieved and being insulted. Insulted ground relief into a fine powder. I mean, I know I hadn’t put my best moves on him that night, but damn!
“Excuse me.” I made my voice as sweet as my mama’s candied yams. “We’re right in the middle of a business lunch. We’re actually very pressed for time.” He smiled at all of us and apologized for interrupting. When he was out of hearing range, Chester, the other lawyer at the table, was the first to speak.
“Looks like you have an admirer, Fiona.” I was going to ignore the comment, but the sandwich swiper chimed in.
“I’m sure Fiona has plenty of admirers. She’s a very beautiful woman.” He had the audacity to raise a suggestive eyebrow at me. The look that I gave him caused him to lower his eyebrows immediately and the other men to chuckle.
As we were continuing to work out the details of the “settlement,” the server approached our table with a very expensive-looking platter and placed it and small serving plates in the center of the table. I looked with admiration at the four enormous crab cakes that were placed artfully in a creamy seafood sauce. “We didn’t order these,” I told her. She smiled.
“Compliments of the chef.” As soon as she said that, my companions gave each other knowing looks and grabbed their plates. The server handed me a slip of orange paper that had been folded in half and stapled. “Also from the chef,” she said before leaving again. I should have put the paper in my purse, but I’m very curious by nature.
As the men made sex noises over the shellfish, I unfolded the paper as discreetly as possible.
I know women like to play hard to get, but I’ve already had you, remember?
The words were printed in a very neat masculine handwriting on the center of the paper. I was not amused. When I looked up, my companions were staring at me expectantly.
“Care to share?” asked the sandwich swiper.
“Just the name of the designer he mentioned.” I shrugged my shoulders casually, folded the paper, and placed it in the pocket on the side of my purse. The men had demolished three of the crab cakes and my client was going for the fourth. “Would you like some bread with that?” I asked sarcastically. He stopped just as he was about to scoop the last one up with his fork. His expression was sheepish.
“I’m sorry, Fiona. Would you like one?”
“No, thank you.” My appetite was gone and all I really wanted was to get out of the place. I decided that I would stay until our entrées arrived; then I would plead a headache and leave. As the plan was forming in my head, our server approached our table again, not with our food, but with another beautiful tray. This time she placed a frosty glass in front of each one of us.
“The chef again,” she said. And again, she handed me an orange slip of paper. I took a sip of the concoction, a frothy peach lemonade, before unfolding the note.
Meet me in the open area next to the kitchen. I need to talk to you.
It’s very important. If you’re not there in less than five minutes I’m coming to get you.
When I read the word “important,” I started to feel a little panicky. The only important thing one-night standers could have to say to one another, in my opinion, had to do with disease. And I was absolutely sure that our sex had been as safe as sex can be, or at least as safe as it can be when two people are actually having sexual intercourse. Nothing too freaky-deaky, no exchange of bodily fluids, but still, I was nervous as I made my excuses and my way toward the kitchen area.
He was leaning casually against the wall as I approached. Members of his staff were bustling in and out of the kitchen. He looked good, better than I remembered. I hadn’t allowed myself to get a good look at him when he stood at our table.
I gave him a hard look before speaking. “Do you make it a habit to harass your patrons when they’re trying to conduct business in your establishment?” He ignored my question. “What’s so important?” He smiled at me.
“I just wanted to let you know that’s it’s not too late to call. Sure, my feelings are a little hurt, but it’s nothing that dinner and good conversation won’t mend.”
I decided to be direct. “I didn’t call because I had no intention of calling. I didn’t even look at your number before I threw it in the trash.” Direct…brutally honest…What’s the difference? He laughed and moved aside to avoid being run over by a young man carrying a silver pitcher.
“Too much for you, huh?”
I looked him up and down. He was wearing jeans under his denim coat. The material touched his muscular thighs. A wide white smile revealed a long dimple in his left cheek, and his skin was tan over brown. He looked fresh.
“Absolutely not,” I said disdainfully. I snorted just a little bit to further illustrate how way off the mark he was. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting to get back to.” As I turned to leave he stopped me by grabbing my wrist. His warm hand on my skin caused my heart to beat a little faster.