Loaded, p.3
Loaded, page 3
More importantly, is there a chance Bea likes me?
“I’m sure you’re teasing, but I definitely can’t eat with you,” she says. “I’m working.”
“Right,” I say. “Of course. But maybe you could get that to go.” I toss my head at the lobster dumplings. “Then you can take them home and pretend you were eating with me.” Oh man, I’m corny. She’s going to laugh and walk off.
But she doesn’t.
She inhales and ducks her head again, like she’s embarrassed.
That might be worse. Am I harassing my waitress? Am I that guy now? Before she has to say anything else, I reach across and grab the lobster puff things and shove them both in my mouth. “Wow. Those are good.”
Bea straightens, her shoulders squaring. “That’s not usually how people eat them.”
I chew, chew, chew, and swallow. The bite is so big it hurts my throat going down, like it’s dragging its hands down the inside of my esophagus. “No?” I cough. “You don’t say.”
There’s the laugh, but at least she doesn’t walk off, and she’s laughing at me, not because I’ve made her nervous or uncomfortable. “I didn’t bring those for you, though.” She tosses her head at the prosciutto and cheese thing. “The burrata’s what you’re supposed to like.”
“You thought Chaliesah would love the lobster dumplings?” I ask. “Why?” I mean, they were good, but they tasted pan fried, and I don’t imagine she eats a lot of oil.
Bea narrows her eyes at me. “Just try yours.”
I stare at her for a moment, wondering what she’s thinking, and then I nod and look down at my food. I cut the cheese into a smaller piece and spear a slice of prosciutto, making sure to get some arugula and the balsamic. When I pop it in my mouth, I don’t expect much. At the end of the day, prosciutto’s really just ham in a tux.
But this is. . .more. The pickled onion, the hint of seared squash, and the tang of cider—together with the balsamic—the flavors are amplified in a way I didn’t expect. I scoop up a second little blob more slowly, and when I pop it in my mouth, I savor it, closing my eyes, inhaling slowly.
When I finally open my eyes, Bea’s smiling. “Told you.”
“How did you—why’d you pick this?”
She shrugs. “I was right, though.”
“It was phenomenal,” I admit. “But now you have to tell me why you picked lobster for Miss Collagen USA.” Which has to be the funniest nickname I’ve ever heard of someone giving a person they’ve barely met.
Bea purses her already full lips, and I want to reach out and brush my thumb against them.
Because apparently I’m insane around her.
She sighs, like she’s decided something, and then she says, “I’m not proud of it, but I chose them because she said she liked seafood, and I know they’re made with flour, so I thought she might still eat them in spite of that.” Her lip’s twitching. “I’m a jerk, but she said it wasn’t an allergy, so I won’t apologize for it.”
This time, I’m the one laughing. “It’s too bad she didn’t get a chance to bloat,” I say.
“Her face is worth a lot of money,” Bea says. “I guess I’m kind of a bad person.” She spins around on her heel and disappears.
I should probably pay and leave, but even the Hulk couldn’t drag me out of this restaurant. I know it’s not a date anymore, but it feels more like a date now than it did with my date sitting across from me.
Like a creeper, I pretend to be on my phone, but really I watch Bea take care of her other tables. She’s so small that watching her carry big trays is, well, it’s surprising somehow. She acts like a tray with four or five plates on it weighs nothing, setting it effortlessly on the small stand she whips out with her free hand.
It’s not very long before Bea returns with two plates for me. “I’d already put in the order.” She bites her lip.
I swear, if I wasn’t sure she’s not some crazy vixen, I’d assume she was pursing and biting her lips just to draw attention to them. They look like what Chaliesah clearly wanted hers to look when she had all that collagen put in.
Large. Plump. And currently? Being bitten by very white teeth.
One of which is just a tiny bit crooked. The one just to the left of her front two teeth is angled just a hair, and I love it.
“No?”
Shoot. She asked me something.
“No?” I repeat her question like a moron.
A tiny smile curves at the edge of her mouth. “You don’t want freshly ground pepper? Right?”
Yes. The food. Because that’s her job.
I glance down for the first time to see what she brought. “A burger?” I can’t help my surprise.
“For your date, I brought the sweet Melissa Surf and Turf—crab leg, a six-ounce filet, butterflied, with chili butter. It’s got a very subtle zing that only the most discerning palate will catch.”
“So she’d be sure to miss it.” I point at my burger. “But explain this.”
“Try it first.” She folds her arms across her chest.
I want to argue, but she’s channeling a pretty impressive amount of third-grade teacher, so I duck my head, pick up the burger, and take a dutiful bite.
Like the prosciutto, this is an explosion of several flavors that I do not expect. Burgers at steakhouses usually have a thick, juicy patty, often flavored with a lot of salt and strange seasonings.
This is nothing like that.
Instead, it tastes like maybe two or three very thin, very crispy patties. They’re almost lacy on the sides, and they’re seasoned only by salt, unless I’m wrong. Anything more would fight with the strangely sharp gouda cheese that’s not quite melted, the crisp red onions that were clearly marinated in something tangy, and some kind of sauce I can’t place.
Maple?
“And?” She arches one eyebrow.
The bun’s soft on top, crunchy underneath, and the sauce, the onions, and the cheese offset the patties perfectly. It’s the best burger I’ve ever had, and I love burgers. I didn’t tell her that. After what I did tell her, I expected seafood.
“It’s really, really good. But if this burger costs a hundred bucks, I’m going to be annoyed.”
“Will you really?” She drops one hand on her hip.
Nothing she does could annoy me. “Absolutely,” I lie.
“You’re in luck, then. It’s the cheapest thing on the menu.”
“Doesn’t that cut into your tip?”
She shrugs. “I think happy customers tip better.”
“But surely ten percent of a hundred bucks is better than twenty or thirty percent of twenty-five?”
Bea leans closer, her breath washing over the side of my face when she whispers, “People come here for an experience. As long as we deliver, we’re doing our job.”
An experience.
I turn so I can see her face, and I’m lost again. Her eyes are like nothing I’ve ever seen. So earnest, so sincere, and so doe-like. “Well, I appreciate your sensibility about my budget.” I cringe as I say it. What’s wrong with me? I haven’t flirted in so long—have I forgotten how? That’s embarrassing.
She straightens. “What should I do with hers?”
“Do you happen to like crab or filet?”
She scrunches her nose. “I prefer mine medium rare, but there’s no way she’d eat that.”
“So you ruined a perfectly good filet.”
“It’s butterflied.” She shrugs. “So yeah, ruined.”
I laugh again. “Better throw it to the dogs.”
“Do you have a dog?”
I’ve never wanted to have a dog more in my entire life. “I should get one, now that I have a little more time.” I smile. “I know someone who could help me with it.” Gah, Easton, you idiot. I should have told her I needed her help in picking one.
“Elizabeth’s very passionate about pets,” she says.
“You’re not?”
“I like animals,” she says. “But I’m not really in a position to take care of one. I work long hours, and I’m not exactly ordering steaks and crab to toss to a dog.” She winks.
I’m such an idiot. She’s a waitress, and I’m just reminding her of that. “I feel you on not having the time.” And now I’m just staring at her again.
“Well, I’ll let you eat that burger.” She shoots me a half-smile and then she’s gone.
Like a buttercup at sunset, I slump over my burger. It’s delicious, but I swear it tastes twice as good when she’s smiling in my direction.
When she brings me a dessert—just one this time—I perk back up. “What’s this?”
She’s literally carrying a balloon suspended by what looks sort of like a sour straw, connected to a tray that’s covered with chocolates and syrup.
“You seem like someone who appreciates presentation as much as flavor.” She tilts her head. “Is that wrong?”
“You brought me a balloon? Do you think I’m five?” Oh, shoot. Does she?
Her smile’s tentative. “It’s an edible helium balloon. Our chef’s best friend invented the idea with him in cooking school, and the restaurant Alinea in Chicago and this one are the only two places that serve them, as far as I know.”
“Whoa, you’re saying I can eat that?” I lean closer. “But it’s floating.” It’s clear, shiny, and. . . “Is there helium in it?”
Now her smile widens. “There sure is. If Miss Collagen USA were here, you could serenade her in falsetto.”
“Who will I serenade without my date?” I fake a frown. “I’m all alone, no one to sing to. Don’t you feel sorry for me?”
“Not even a little bit.” She shrugs.
“Heartless.”
“I suppose.”
I poke it and suck in the helium immediately, hoping to keep her around a little longer. But when I start to talk, I surprise even myself. I sound like Peewee Herman. “Bea—is it short for Beatrice?”
She nods.
“You know, I don’t even know your last name. How can I serenade you without your last name?”
She’s laughing now. “No serenading, please. It’s frowned upon.”
I inhale the last bit of helium and sing, “Bea, Bea, Bea, Be-a-trice Ann,” to the old Beach Boys hit.
“The Beach Boys?” She waves me off. “How old are you?” But she’s laughing.
“I discovered as a kid that if we put on the Beach Boys, my dad would drive faster on road trips.”
“You’re kidding.”
I shake my head. “That one thing cut our trips down by like an hour, I swear.”
But just then, the table behind us starts waving. “Check?”
In a blink, she’s gone. I console myself by eating the sugary, sticky, almost taffy-like balloon, and mopping up the chocolate sauce with the sour-straw-esque string.
When Bea returns with the check, I’m ready. I throw my card down without even looking at it. Before she can dart away, I make my move. “So, Bea. You couldn’t eat with me tonight, and that bummed me out. I’d love to take you out—anywhere you want—and actually eat at the same time as you.”
Her brows draw together, and she ducks her head again, but when she does look up, I can tell it’s not good news for me. “I’m sorry, but I think that’s a bad idea.”
The really terrible news hits when another waiter brings the card back. “Bea’s shift ended,” he says.
Only, I’m pretty sure she ran—from me.
Now I have to find out why and fix it. She’s good enough that I can’t let her get away a third time.
4
Bea
When I started high school, Seren insisted that I try a sport. “You’re the most talented pianist I’ve ever met,” she said. “But that’s all you do.” She crouched down so we were eye-to-eye, and when someone who’s five-foot-four has to crouch, you know you’re short. “I worry that you’re hiding in that music room.” She pressed a kiss to my forehead.
Then she bought me a pair of running shoes.
The irony was not lost on me—instead of hiding, I should run?
But hiding was easy; I hated running.
In fact, there were very few things I liked less than going outside, tightening the laces on my shiny, new running shoes, and pounding the pavement. But it was a solitary sport—perhaps the most solitary, unless you include swimming where you’re literally underwater the entire time so that you can’t talk.
I liked solitary.
Within a few weeks, the agony in my chest wasn’t quite as acute. The misery of my aching muscles eased, too. A month after Seren forced me to try track, I was actually improving.
At least, it felt like I was.
Until Jake breezed over to join the team as well. Like every single thing he ever tried, he was a true natural. The solitary nature of my runs, the one thing I liked about the activity, disappeared as I was plagued by Jake. . .and his accompanying fan club. It wasn’t surprising, I suppose, that he was followed by at least half a dozen attractive girls everywhere he went, even then. He had the face of a Greek god and the body of a, well, a lean runner. He was also tall, which meant that running next to him made me look even more like a child than I already did.
Running, which I had tolerated because it provided a lot of time for me to think quietly, was now my least favorite part of every day. Physical misery and social torture were all rolled into one. I tried to complain to Jake, but as always, he persisted in misunderstanding my complaints. He yelled at his followers, telling them to leave us alone. They listened, and that worsened the rumors about us, making my non-Jake interactions even more fraught.
After years of those types of things happening, I’ve learned.
My dream guy is basically Jake’s opposite.
Short.
Unattractive.
Socially awkward.
That’s the kind of person who’s likely to accept that I’m small, shy, and quiet without trying to change me. Since I work in a restaurant, which keeps me busy nearly every night of the week, it’s been easy for me to avoid dating anyone like Jake.
Or really, I haven’t been pursued by anyone at all.
Unless you count the sous chef, which I do not. She’s one hundred percent not my type, her gender only one of many reasons I had no interest.
So when Easton asked me out, I was floored.
Why someone like him would be interested in me. . .it makes no sense. My brain rejected the idea before I could even consider it. Our first meeting was disastrous enough, what with the arm-wrestling challenge and Easton’s subsequent embarrassment. I swear, it’s the one consistent theme in my life.
If Jake can cause trouble, he does.
In his defense, I used Jake as a shield at the wedding.
I noticed right after the ceremony that Easton was heading my way. I figured he wanted to somehow smooth over the awkwardness between all of us, but I didn’t want any part of that. There’s no reason for us to see Easton in the future, just because Emerson married his sister. I decided it would be simpler to avoid him entirely. Jake’s always been really good at social situations, so when I mentioned that I’d rather not talk to Easton after the nightmare of the arm wrestling, he stuck by my side for the entire reception.
I had to endure Jake’s gaggles of admirers, but it was fine.
Only now, after spending a bit of time with Easton, I wonder. Was he trying to clear the air? Or could he have been interested in me, even then? What are his intentions?
In the split second I had to respond, all of that shot through my mind, and I decided that none of it mattered. Not really. Easton and I are like hummus and honeydew melon—we may share the same first letter, as in, we have a relation to one another, sort of. But we do not go together, and we never will.
He’s tall, for one, while I am quite the opposite. If we dated, I’d need a stepstool just to kiss him. He’s also rich as sin, whereas I sometimes check the couch cushions for gas money. Jake loses change more often than most people. But the worst problem is that the media is all over Easton, almost as bad as they are with Jake. If I search ‘hot, young, and rich,’ he’s the third hit. Forbes basically painted a target on his back the second his company went public. Elizabeth said it was his life’s dream, making a billion bucks, and he’s well on his way. But there aren’t many hot, rich men who are single and also not fat.
He’s a unicorn.
A lot of girls want someone just like him, but that’s basically the opposite of what I want. With money comes eyes. Scrutiny. The loss of any anonymity.
Hard pass.
I have no idea why I toss and turn for so long before I fall asleep after running home, but I finally drift off. And I do not dream of Easton.
I don’t dream of him eating an ice cream cone—that would be odd.
I don’t dream of him swimming, pushing up out of the pool, shoulder and chest muscles rippling.
I don’t dream of him walking beside me on a city street, arms swinging, eyes sparkling.
I definitely don’t dream of him sitting on the couch next to me, stuffing his face with popcorn and then offering me some, like he’s my boyfriend.
Because I don’t like Easton Moorland.
Not one bit.
But when I lace up my shoes and set the activity on my watch to “run,” his stupidly handsome face does flash through my mind. I smack the side of my head once to clear it, but all I get for that is a headache. I doggedly turn my playlist on and head for the door.
“Hey, wait.”
I’ve barely made it six steps when Jake’s plaintive voice penetrates the singing of Tim McGraw. I grit my teeth and stop, turning to look over my shoulder. “What?”
I must have spoken too loud, because he motions for me to take out my earphones.
I groan, but I do it. “What?”
“Wait two minutes and I’ll come with. I just have to lace up my shoes.”
I shove my earphones back in and take off.
I hear him swearing behind me, but that just widens my smile. It’s hilarious, annoying Jake, one of my favorite things to do. I speed up a little.
By the time he catches up to me, he’s really puffing. His shoelaces aren’t tied, and he’s scowling. Anyone else would have fallen on their face, but the sheen of sweat just amplifies his ridiculous good looks. It’s obnoxious.
