Proud to Serve Her(6)

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The sucking black hole of loneliness enveloped her with his absence. It was odd how delightful the restaurant sounded, the musical notes straining through the hum of the crowd, the swish of the doors, the clink, clank of the plates and the bursts of explosive laughter. The symphony descended into cacophony when her “waiter” vanished back into the kitchens. Helena sighed, swirling the burgundy—grenache—around in the glass. He’d brought her the burgundy, the wine for the hungry soul. How did he describe it? Burgundy wine drinkers are hungry for something they’ve never had before?

She sampled more, letting the wine flow around her tongue. It was spicy and fruity and gentle, all the things Damon described.

And the seat opposite her was still empty. Because she was hungry for something she’d never had before. She was hungry for a real connection, something both physical and intimate, but without the tangle of strings or the dating dance which was near impossible to meet on her schedule—and had been for more than a decade if she was honest with herself. Sometime between graduating high school at sixteen and entering college on an accelerated program that earned her a bachelor’s degree before she was nineteen, she’d forgotten how to have fun. If she wasn’t studying, she was working, if she wasn’t working she was sleeping, and then only in small increments. She was thirty years old and she had just received the offer to become a full partner in her law firm.

She should be out celebrating with friends, except her closet friend preferred his meals served on a plate in the kitchen and then to snuggle on her law briefs while she tried to review them.

Of course, what do I know? I think my date is playing waiter tonight, and I’m not sure why. But it’s fun and a little naughty.

She inspected the thin slice of nine grain with the Swiss layered over the top and a drizzle of honey for flavor. Her last date had been to junior prom, which somehow didn’t seem to count in the great, grand scheme of things. A wild burst of laughter from the crowd dragged her away from the melancholy.

Thankful for the distraction, she bit into the hors d’oeuvre. The flavors melded together, blindingly sweet, tart, with something as familiar and homey as the wheat. The bread’s texture was grainy compared to the utter smoothness and she chased bits around her mouth, sliding them against her teeth before swallowing.

She washed the mouthful down with wine and a flush of guilty pleasure. She wasn’t supposed to play with the food. A glance at her watch said it was nearly twenty to eight and her date was still a no show.

Pausing mid reach for her purse, she frowned. Damon had taken her cell phone. She couldn’t even check to see if Madame Eve sent her a note that something else had come up.

Impatience flashed through her and she scooped up another piece of cheese and bread. She’d have to double her time on the treadmill tomorrow to begin to make up for the calories she was indulging in. But hell, it was her birthday, she’d been stood up by the so-called perfect one-night stand and she’d rather devour the sweet cheese and fruity wine than all the self-pity in the world.

A shadow drifted across her plate and she glanced up, half-ready to give the latecomer a piece of her mind, but her waiter’s raised eyebrows stilled the acidic words. The corner of her mouth turned up and she set the wine glass down.

“I take it you didn’t like that piece.”

If she could bottle his accent and intonations, she could sample them every day. “No…I mean yes, it was fine. I don’t think I really tasted that one, I was too busy being a bitter old bat.”

With practiced ease, he slid away the trencher of cheese and bread and replaced it with a round plate featuring crisped greens and the most sinful piece of steak. Her stomach recovered from the doldrums faster than her smile. The scent of wine lingered in the air, along with traces of beef and a mouthwatering spice she couldn’t quite put a finger on.

“First, we do not insult ladies in this establishment, so no more bat comments. Second, if you’re bitter and old, you must introduce me to ancient and decrepit.” The confident ease in his voice did more to stroke her ego than all the pretty compliments in the world. For a horrifying moment, tears touched the back of her eyes and she blinked them away.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” But instead of abandoning her to the next course, he set out her silverware and traded the black napkin for a red before squatting down, one hand braced on the back of the chair.

“Would you like to tell me what’s wrong?”

Mortification vied with attraction and she shook her head. Do you want to confess to being my date now? Because at this point, if you’re not, I have a feeling my date is going to be dramatically disappointed. Or I am.