"Indeed," he says, his lips in a smirk, eyes twinkling.
"Have you... uh... decided on your... what you want?" Shut up, Ari. You sound like an idiot.
He grins, a dimple forming on his chin. "What do you recommend?"
"Depends," I say, slowing my breathing so I don't pass out. "Are you in the mood for savory or sweet?"
Everything I say suddenly feels like a double entendre with this man.
"Surprise me." He hands me his menu and tugs at the cuff of his suit.
"You don't look like a man who usually likes surprises," I say, studying him more closely as I regain my composure.
He raises a perfectly formed eyebrow at me. "Really? What kind of man do I look like?"
"A proud man who likes control."
There's a flash of surprise on his face, before his mask falls back into place. How do I know that's a mask? How do I know these things about him? I have no idea. I'm pretty intuitive about people, but I leave the fortune telling to Es's boyfriend, Pete. He's got the gift, or so everyone says. I've always been too chicken to have him read me.
Unlike this man before me, I like surprises. Life is too bleak without them.
"The way you dress," I say.
He raises an eyebrow.
"You wear an expensively tailored Italian suit into a diner. Your nails are manicured. Your skin is well-cared for. Everything about how you present yourself screams control. Precision. There's nothing that indicates you like spontaneity or surprises."
He doesn't reply, just stares into my eyes for far too long. I look around for an escape from his penetrative gaze. My eyes fall to the table, to his elegant hands. His jacket cuff is pulled up, exposing a strange kind of scar or tattoo on his wrist. "Does that mean something special?" I ask, pointing to it.
He looks down, and quickly pulls his jacket to cover it. "Just a birthmark."
I flush and look away. "I'll just... find something for you to eat." I rush off, and hide in the back until I can slow my wild heart.
Es rushes by, hands full of plates, but she pauses when she sees me. "What's the matter with you, darlin'? You're not coming down with that flu that's going around, are you? Vomit is not a good look on me."
I shake my head. "I'm not sick. Just... flustered. I don't know. It's weird. I'm fine."
She raises a plucked eyebrow at me, then glances out to my table. "Oh, I see. Darlin', that man is a gift from the Universe. He is your birthday present, all wrapped up in silk and satin. You must give him your number!"
"No way. Definitely not my type."
"Really? Tall, dark, and sexy as sin isn't your type? Pray tell what is?" She leans closer to me, and I can smell her expensive perfume. "Look, honey. You are the closest thing to a virgin The Roxy has ever seen over the age of sixteen. You need to get some before you shrivel up."
I puff out my chest in mock offense. "I am not a virgin!"
She rolls her eyes. "High school boys behind the bleachers do not count. Now get that man something delicious to eat, and I'm not talking about anything from our menu."
Despite my bold words, I blush, because she's not wrong. For a waitress at The Roxy, I'm woefully inexperienced when it comes to men.
But right now, time is ticking, my other tables are filling up, and I need to figure out what to feed this strange man, when my eyes land on my birthday cake. I cut a slice and bring it out to him. His eyes crinkle when he sees it. "Good choice," he says.
"It's my birthday cake," I spurt out. Because I'm a five-year-old with her first kindergarten crush, apparently.
"Happy birthday," he says, taking a big bite out of the cake. "My brother would love this place. Just decadent enough for him."
"You don't enjoy decadence?" I ask.
"I prefer to stay on task, to not get distracted by temporary pleasures. What about you, Arianna? What do you enjoy?"
I narrow my eyes. "How do you know my name?" We don't wear name tags at The Roxy.
"I heard your coworker mention it," he says without pause. "But you didn't answer my question. What do you enjoy?"
"Customers who tip big," I say, turning on my heel to walk away. I hear him chuckle as I stop to take the order of my next table.
When I come back, he's gone, only one bite missing from his cake. But he left a stack of twenty-dollar bills under the water glass, with a business card. I stare at it in disbelief, then count it quickly. Three hundred dollars? For a slice of cake? My breath hitches. Was this on purpose? Who is this guy? I pick up the card and study it. It's heavy card stock with engraved silver writing. No name, just a phone number and a hand-written note that says, "See you soon," in a formal cursive style in thick black ink. I stick the card and money in my pocket as a drunken man across the diner kicks the juke box.