Under the Same Stars(27)
Something in my stomach curdled even though the only milk I’d had today was in my cereal for breakfast. That’s right, I remembered. Davis had a somewhat still recent ex-girlfriend. He’d told me at Crescent Moon Coffee, but it hadn’t come up since. I had forgotten about her.
Her, who was so clearly Natalie. It all made sense now. Natalie not being thrilled to meet me earlier, and then Davis driving Natalie’s car into town and Natalie using Davis’s name for our reservation—they were probably old habits that they couldn’t yet kick.
The realization felt like a field hockey ball to the ankle, sudden and sharp.
Under the table, Davis put a hand on my knee. “It’s not…” he murmured, but I ignored him. Instead, I leaned forward in my chair and eyed Natalie.
“Well, is it working? Are you jealous?”
Next to her, Ben/Brett/Brent was probably comprehending that he too was here to make someone jealous.
“Damn, girl…” Evan said from farther down the table, as I kept staring Natalie down. My heart was hammering in my chest, but no one needed to know that. It wasn’t until I caught her lip just barely tremble and she blinked that I pushed back my chair.
“If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to the bathroom,” I said, and patted Davis’s shoulder—a gesture that I hoped conveyed something along the lines of We need to talk, but also Don’t follow me.
I didn’t want to think about what the table was saying about me once I’d weaved my way to the back of the restaurant (because I sure as hell knew they were saying something). “Sorry!” I exclaimed when I almost bumped into a server carrying a tray of cocktails, and then immediately afterward dodged a pair of busboys with full bins. They pushed through the kitchen doors together without so much as a glance at me.
The doors not only swept open wide enough for me to see all the behind-the-scenes action, but also what I thought was a total hallucination: Marco ?lvarez and three other guys enjoying a steak dinner at a fully set table. White linens, silverware, glassware, everything. They were even wearing blue blazers.
What the fuck? I wondered, and because I knew no boundaries and didn’t actually need to go to the bathroom, my high heels and I marched into the kitchen to see what was happening.
“Hey, miss, you can’t—” someone started, but all the clanging, clattering, and bellowed kitchen jargon (with plenty of profanity peppered in) made it impossible to hear. Especially when I was still stalking toward Marco’s table, trying not to laugh.
“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” I asked.
Marco swallowed a bite of his filet. “Did Carina put you up to this?” He took a sip of his water and smiled. “Because I did promise I would come out and say hi…”
“Why are you eating dinner in the kitchen?” I asked.
He gave me a confused look. “Because the kitchen is where one eats dinner?”
“Not at restaurants.” I shook my head. “At restaurants, you eat in the dining room. Only the Mafia eats in the…” I trailed off and gave his buddies a look. “Don’t tell me you guys are cosplaying mobsters?”
It turned out I possessed the power to make Princeton men blush.
“Of course not,” one said. “We’re not properly outfitted in pinstripes.”
“But the food at Tower sucked tonight,” a second one confessed.
“And the line for Hoagie Haven was going on two blocks,” the third sighed.
“Plus, the dining room is fully booked,” Marco said, then shrugged. “Although the ambiance in here is much more pleasing.” He gestured around at all the kitchen excitement. “As you can clearly deduce—”
“Are you fucking serious?!” someone somewhere shouted. “The tab clearly says Table Eight has a shellfish allergy! In all capitals!”
“Yes,” I said dryly as his friends chuckled. “Nothing beats dinner and a show.”
Marco’s lips twitched in amusement. “How’s it going out there?”
“Well, I’m currently in here,” I told him. “So how do you think?”
“I thought you maybe wanted to briefly exchange pleasantries,” he said, keeping his voice light.
I rolled my eyes.
In response, Marco tugged one of the empty chairs away from the table and gestured for me to sit. I did, less than gracefully because of my semi-formalwear. “What’s happening?”
“Um…” I hesitated, glancing at his friends. They didn’t look fazed in the least. What did they know? Nothing? Something? Everything?
“Carina said you looked excited earlier,” one of the guys said. “You wouldn’t stop smiling at…” He paused. “David?”
“Davis,” I corrected, turning to include the whole table in the conversation. They obviously knew I was here on a date. “And I was excited—super excited—but that was before I found out that his ex-girlfriend was dining with us!”
If I were with the bridesmaids, they would’ve gasped, but the Princetonians simply absorbed tonight’s plot twist with calm and casual nods.
It was a bit disappointing, to be honest.
“What are your names?” I asked.
“Simon,” said one.
“Zach,” the second answered.