His eyes search mine, but he doesn’t respond. The silence is palpable as the walls of the changing room threaten to close in around us.
“You think I’m getting my hopes up, don’t you? Being too intense about it?” I venture.
“I don’t think that at all.” He catches a loose strand of my hair through his fingers. His jaw is so tense, he’s at risk of cracking his beautiful teeth. He’s literally inches away from my face, and if I went on my tiptoes, I could probably close that gap. I think he might even want to, until he says, “You’re gonna make some guy really happy one day. And I hope for your sake that it’s Daniel.”
I flinch. His words solidify the harsh truth. Regardless of whether or not he was turned on by me in an enclosed space, he sure as sugar is not my hero.
The sooner I come to terms with that glaring, indisputable fact, the better.
There’s a stretch of silence as he exits the stall, closing the curtain between us yet again.
? chapter twenty-six
CAN I OFFER you a drink yet, ma’am?” Rogan, the waiter, asks for the third time in a faux Queen’s style British accent. For the past twenty minutes, he’s been silently judging the shit out of me from afar as I demo the house breadsticks.
“I’d still like to wait for my date, thanks.” I give him my best breezy, unbothered smile, like I’m perfectly content alone at this table for two. Just me and my breadsticks.
Rogan gives me a tight-lipped nod and shuffles away to observe from afar with the other waitstaff. I’m convinced they’re taking bets about me based on their not-so-subtle glances and whispers. After years of working in my grandparents’ restaurant, I’m painfully aware that making dumb bets on customers is sometimes the only source of entertainment in an otherwise monotonous shift.
Ten bucks says her date won’t show.
Let’s wager a guess when the waterworks start.
Why is it that sitting alone in a fancy establishment is so much more humiliating than in your average chain restaurant? No one would judge me if I were eating these breadsticks solo at Olive Garden.
I drum the toes of my heels against the lush carpet, trying to block out the classical music, which probably wouldn’t be so grating if I weren’t languishing all by my lonesome. Daniel is late, and I’m starting to wonder when it’s appropriate to phone it in and order a slice of the twelve-layer chocolate cake on the menu, to go. I curse myself for not confirming the date and time after my fitting at the costume shop.
When my phone lights up, a jolt of electricity rips through me. It has to be Daniel, telling me he’s on his way posthaste, followed by a long-winded explanation of the harrowing incident that caused his tardiness.
But no such luck. The text is from Trevor.
TREVOR: How’s dinner going?
I’m half-tempted to ignore his text, simply to avoid the pity.
TARA: I think I’m being stood up. Going to leave soon probably. Do we have chips at home? I’m gonna need them.
TARA: GIF of Sad Pablo Escobar all by his lonesome on ugly patio swing
At the half-hour mark, I shoot Daniel a DM, letting him know I’m waiting at the restaurant. He has yet to respond.
At the front of the room, Rogan whispers to the hostess, who has vacant eyes and fuchsia lipstick on her teeth. They simultaneously cast grim expressions toward me. If I had to guess, they’re stressing about the lack of table space. I can’t say I blame them. Mamma Maria’s is a full house tonight. The lineup is out the door, spilling down the brown, slushy sidewalk. I’m the annoying customer needlessly wasting a table, throwing everything off.
I hold my breath as the hostess sashays over. “Do you know if the other member of your party will be here soon?” she asks, brandishing a frighteningly fake lopsided smile. Her name tag is only half-visible behind her blond curls, allowing me to make out the first few letters （Mer）。 “We have another reservation in half an hour.”
“He’ll be here. In ten minutes,” I say reassuringly, though more to myself.
She gives me a pitiful expression and sighs dramatically, like she’s doing me a massive favor. “Ten more minutes,” she warns, like a weary parent granting their child extra playtime at the park.
I picture an ancient, hand-carved hourglass emptying with just two measly grains of sand stubbornly holding on. At the nine-minute mark, Rogan strides forth to officially kick me out. He clears his throat, cruelly forcing me to look him in the eyes while he does so. “Ma’am, I apologize, but I’m going to have to ask you to—”
“Hey, I’m so sorry, babe. I got held up in a meeting,” a booming voice sounds over his shoulder.
It’s not Daniel.
It’s Trevor.
His eyes are warm, almost amber-colored from the glow of the candlelight. And he’s dressed in a suit, no less, casually taking a good decade off my life-span.
A good suit can elevate any man at least two notches. Some men are just born to wear suits, like the Christian Grey or Chuck Bass types, the ones who command respect when their suave selves stride into a boardroom, their brows raised inquisitively. They smell like mahogany, radiating status and sex appeal with a dash of sociopathic tendencies. The mere fastening of a cuff link is enough to make the postmenopausal secretary shift in her chair. On rare occasions, they may be spotted in the wild in casual wear, and it’s jarring, like seeing your first-grade teacher next to you in the condom and lube aisle of the local pharmacy.
Then there are men like Trevor Metcalfe. The rugged, emotionally damaged types who would rather wear literally anything else, preferably their ripped, distressed jeans and leather jacket that smells like danger. But in exceptional circumstances when they wear a suit, it’s game over for humanity. Personally, I’m offended I’ve been deprived of such a magnificent sight until now.
A dark-charcoal jacket spans Trevor’s broad shoulders like a glove, the fabric straining a little over his physique, accentuating his tapered waist. His wavy hair looks like shaved dark chocolate, slightly damp, fresh from a steamy shower straight out of my dreams.
Rogan frowns as Trevor settles into the seat across from mine, relaxed and self-assured.
I bumble out some garbled nonsense, unable to speak English through my shock.
Trevor gives me an easy wink over the menu that makes my heart dolphin-flip. In return, I flash him a half-terrified, half-thankful smile while stuffing a quarter of a breadstick in my mouth.
“What can I get for you tonight?” Rogan asks, callously reaching to swipe the bread basket.
To his shock and horror, Trevor snatches it with superhuman speed, setting it back on the table where it belongs. “Sorry, sir. We aren’t done with the bread. And I’m good with whatever you have on tap, please.”
He certainly did not request to keep the bread for himself. One does not simply get a hard body like that by mindlessly shoveling empty carbs down their throat. He saved that basket of bread for me, knowing damn well I’ll go down in a blaze of wheaty glory in the name of carbs. Maybe I’ve been wrong about Trevor’s romantic lead potential all along, because that was some real hero shit.
Rogan shoots eye lasers at the bread basket, mentally turning it to a pile of ashy crumbs. “And to eat?”