Loaded, p.5
Loaded, page 5
He’s acting like he’d been waiting just for me, which has the other waiters looking and pointing.
“Easton,” I hiss as I shake my head slightly.
He sits, thankfully.
I hand him a menu.
“I’m not sure I should really be waiting on you again today.” I point at the empty chair across from him. “I ran off your last date, and even with your millions, they couldn’t match you with a better one?”
“Your boss didn’t tell you?” He lifts his eyebrows. “I told him I’d pay all the revenue you usually make for all the tables you usually wait on. Then you can eat with me.” He jumps up and pulls out the seat across from him. “This one’s yours.”
5
Easton
It’s a grand gesture.
It’s what Elizabeth told me to do when I told her I liked someone, but the girl wasn’t interested.
Actually, first she laughed.
For a long time.
But once she finally stopped, she asked for details.
I made some up, because I wasn’t about to tell her I was borderline stalking her husband’s foster sister. I might sound like the villain in that scenario.
“You’re hot,” Elizabeth said. “I mean, I don’t have junk genes, but you definitely got better physical appearance markers than I did.”
I rolled my eyes.
“She probably thinks you’re just interested in the chase.” My sister shrugged. “Most rich guys are. Think about Bentley.”
“Emerson’s friend?”
“A family friend for all of them. He dated for a long time before he was ready to get married and settle down.” Her air quotes for settling were funny. “And you’re higher profile right now than he is, because your success is new, and frankly, because you’re not quite thirty yet.”
“There aren’t many rich guys with a six pack.”
Elizabeth glared. “You wish.”
“Fine,” I said. “A two to four pack. But if I cut two sodas a day, I could have a six pack.”
“The point is, if she’s Quality, and I’m guessing she is, then you want her to seriously consider you. To get her to do that, you’ll have to convince her you really do like her. That you’re not just another rich playboy who thinks he can have whatever he wants.”
I thought about it all day long, and then I came up with a plan. I’ve never made a plan in my life that didn’t have at least one contingency, and I’m not about to start. So my grand gesture was buying a date—which I understand could be perceived as a little creepy, but at least she gets a night off and some extra capital with her boss—and if that bombs, well, I’ll have weeks and weeks of work lunches with the board to try and figure out how to smooth things over.
On the other hand, if tonight goes well, the board meetings will be bonus opportunities to see her.
Or maybe she’ll come sit in on lunch with me. . . Her boss did say she usually does the dinner shift. My hopes and dreams for my grand gesture all pause when Bea shows up.
Her shirt is crisp and bright white.
Her pants have a line down the front—freshly pressed.
In my entire life, I’ve never looked at any girl in a boring uniform and thought she looked amazing. Until now. But with her shining hair—albeit pulled back—and her petite figure?
Wowza.
And if I’d said that out loud, I’d sound like a seventy-year-old man. Someone who would wear suspenders unironically, for heaven’s sake. I have got to remember not to use ‘wowza.’
“Bea.” I stand.
She’s glaring. “Easton.” Her head shake is slight, but clear.
I sit.
She hands me a menu.
“I’m not sure I should really be waiting on you again today.” She eyes the empty chair. “I ran off your last date, and even with your millions, they couldn’t match you with a better one?”
“Your boss didn’t tell you?” I did tell him not to, but I’ve learned no one ever listens. “I told him I’d pay all the revenue you usually make for all the tables you usually wait on. Then you can eat with me.” I hop up and pull out the other chair. “This one’s yours.”
All the blood drains from her face.
I’m so used to seeing her duck whenever she gets nervous that this is not what I expected, but I’m smart enough to know it’s not good. When her eyes meet mine, she looks utterly horrified. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“You’ll still—” I was going to say ‘get paid,’ but suddenly, that feels a little too Pretty Woman for comfort. I should have run my grand gesture idea past Elizabeth, obviously. “You’ll still get to pick whatever you want to eat. And you don’t have to choose my meals for me.”
Oh my word. Next, I’ll be telling her I can cut my own steak.
“Look.” I step away from the chair and circle back around to my seat. “I really like you. I’m not sure whether you dislike me, or whether I’ve just startled you.” I try to show her I’m sincere with my eyes, but I worry I just look constipated.
“Easton.” She shakes her head, her enormous eyes welling with tears.
That’s when I realize how badly I misjudged this.
Epic mistake level.
I need to backpedal fast, or I’ll be dead in the water.
The line between grand gesture and stalker is razor thin, and apparently I’m on the wrong side of it.
“I’m kidding,” I say. “I’ll have the oysters and the scallops.” I hand her my menu.
She stares at me for a second, and then she inhales sharply and nods. The second she walks off, I text her boss. THAT DID NOT GO WELL. I TOLD HER IT WAS A JOKE. IF YOU MAKE SURE NO ONE ELSE KNOWS ABOUT IT, I’LL STILL PAY THE SAME.
Two seconds later, I text my friend Matt. COME TO THE RED HORSE AT THE OPUS WESTCHESTER FOR DINNER. WE “HAD PLANS.” 911.
He said he was golfing earlier, but I wouldn’t care if he was skydiving. I’d barely care if he was going in for a job interview. . . I’ve saved him more times than I can count, so he can come eat a free dinner when I need him. He’s eight years younger than I am—just out of school—so free food’s usually enough of a draw on its own.
He gets here just as Bea’s bringing my oysters, which is pretty impressive.
“Who’s this?” Bea’s eyeing him like he’s a moth trying to eat her favorite sweater.
“I’m Matt.” He holds out his hand, which is strange. No one shakes hands with their waitress.
I shake my head.
He drops his hand and sits. “Wow, this place is nice,” he says.
“I fell in love with their food last night,” I say. “I barely slept, thinking about their prosciutto and cheese.”
He eyes my plate. “And then you got oysters?” Matt’s going to get punched if he keeps making me look dumb. I’ve been doing plenty good at that myself. I definitely don’t need help.
“I was waiting to order the burrata until you got here.” I look up at Bea. “Maybe make it two orders. Matt eats more than most teenagers I know.”
“How do you two know each other?” Bea asks.
“I signed up for a mentoring program as an alumnus. They assigned me this loser.” I can’t help my smile.
Bea quirks an eyebrow. “Let me guess. You both went to Harvard?”
“Hardly,” Matt says. “This guy flunked out of Princeton. I met him at Rutgers.”
Everyone thinks I flunked out, because to my parents that was less embarrassing than admitting we couldn’t pay the tuition. They couldn’t risk that anyone at the tuition office might recognize I was taking out loans, so Rutgers, which offered me a full scholarship as a transfer, is where I went.
“You’re a Jersey boy?” Bea narrows her eyes. “Really?”
“I think I got an ‘in state’ scholarship,” Matt says, “which is really just a discount. They waived the fact that I’m from New York to entice me to go.” He shrugs.
“That’s smart of them,” she says. “Bring the good people, but don’t make it entirely free.”
“Good people?” I cringe. “Not sure Matt qualifies.”
He throws his napkin at me.
My phone rings—there’s some kind of problem with the supplier for one of our men’s colognes. By the time I get off the call, Bea’s back with the burratas. Matt wastes no time popping some in his mouth. “That’s amazing,” he says. “But it’s small.” He glances my way. “We’re getting more food, right? With like, big portions?”
Bea laughs. “We’re not exactly known for massive portions.”
“Tell her whether you have allergies,” I say, delighted that she seems entertained. “Then tell her your favorite meal of all time and where you ate it.”
Matt frowns. “No allergies, not like my boy here.”
I try to kick him and wind up slamming my toe into the central table support instead. It’s hard not to wince, but I manage.
“Wait, you have allergies?” Bea asks. “You said last night—”
“No food allergies.” I scowl.
“But he’ll run like a scared little girl if he sees a bee.” Matt slaps the table. “His little scream is hilarious.”
I’m going to kill him.
“I’d mock him about it more often, but I swear, it was so scary that one time that if I were him, I’d screech too.” He shakes his head. “Do you even remember anything from that?”
“Of course I remember it. My face swelled up,” I say. “It didn’t break my brain.”
“You looked like Will Smith in Hitch,” he says. “Actually, you looked worse.” He’s gesturing. “Your ears were like—”
This time, my foot connects with his shin hard.
“Like what?” Bea looks entertained at least.
“The swelling went down as soon as I got epinephrine on board,” I say. “And I hardly think you’re planning to sting me.”
“You never know,” Matt says. “She looks feisty.”
Bea immediately ducks her head, and it’s so stinking cute. She recovers quickly, at least. “You didn’t tell me about your favorite meal yet,” she says. “I’ll need to know about that one and about your worst, too.”
“Hmm.” Matt frowns. “I guess I’m not that picky. I like pizza, and I like tacos, and I like hot dogs.”
Bea chuckles. “You’re really making me work for this.”
Matt shrugs. “I’m not very fancy, I guess. You said you want my worst too?” He sighs. “This one time, my roommate dared me to eat some meat that had been sitting out—”
“Okay,” I say. “I think we’ve heard enough.”
Bea’s shaking her head when she walks off.
“Dude, is she why you called me over here?” Matt’s grinning like a loon. “Because if not, I call dibs. She’s smokin’.”
“Yes, I called you to help me.” I scowl. “You could whisper, at least.”
“Fine.” Matt leans closer. “But dude, I’m not sure how well it’s going. She seemed pretty annoyed.”
“I had a plan.” I fill him in on how my grand gesture backfired.
“Dude, that was a terrible idea.”
“I figured that out right before she started bawling.” I groan. “I’m hoping she believes that I was kidding,” I say. “I did successfully set up weekly board meetings here every Tuesday, so I’ll see her at least once a week.”
“Wait, your plan is to force her to serve you for a work thing?” Matt’s whole face scrunches up. “Yeesh.”
“Is it really a bad idea?”
“You’re tall, good looking, funny, and really smart. Oh yeah, and you’re freaking loaded. Why didn’t you just ask her out?”
“I did,” I say. “She said no.”
Matt leans back, exhaling. “You really should have led with that, my man.”
“Why? Does that give you a better idea?”
He shakes his head slowly. “If she knows all that and she still said no?” He shrugs. “Chick’s probably gay.”
“If she doesn’t like me, she must like women?”
Matt looks pretty grim. “The other option is worse, honestly. Because the only other reason she’d turn you down is that she just straight up doesn’t like you. You can fix a lot, but you can’t fix someone being uninterested.”
He’s right.
It is worse.
Two seconds later, Bea waltzes over, setting a large round plate on the table. Up until now, they’ve all been square-edged, so this is new. It’s loaded up with french fries, covered with bacon, peppers, and parmesan cheese, judging from the smell.
“Was this even on the menu?” I ask.
“It’s a side, technically,” Bea says. “Hipster fries.”
“Hey.” Matt frowns. “I’m not a hipster.”
“I’m not usually someone who’s angry,” Bea says. “But our angry broccoli’s still amazing.”
“Just try the fries,” I say. “You might have a new appreciation for hipsters.”
Matt grabs an impressively large handful. I swear, it usually looks like the kid can unhinge his jaw. After he pops them in his mouth, his eyes light up. “Wow.” He should not be talking with his mouth full, but he’s barely more than twenty. “These are amazing.” He’s already reaching for more. “What’s that little pepper?”
Bea’s smiling. “It’s a shishito pepper. They’re really fun, I think.”
“Is it citrusy?” Matt asks. “Or grassy?”
I reach for some to see what he’s talking about, but he deflects my hand while simultaneously stuffing another pile in his mouth.
“I think we may need another plate,” I say.
She’s still smiling when she walks off.
A few minutes later, she returns, carrying three plates rather impressively. No tray. She sets the fries down first, shifting the now-empty plate she brought Matt, and then she sets the scallops down in front of me. I’d forgotten I even ordered them. I was kind of looking forward to her picking something for me again.
When she sets Matt’s plate in front of him, his eyes widen. “What’s that?”
“That is the forty-ounce tomahawk,” she says, picking up the empty fry plate. “And it also happens to be the single largest and most expensive thing on the menu. Since your friend clearly called you over to cover for his earlier faux pas, I figured you’d enjoy sticking it to him on the price.” She gives a little half bow and walks off.
Well played, Bea.
“She is feisty,” Matt says. “The bad news is that she knows your grand gesture was a grand gesture.”
She doesn’t seem that angry, though. It makes me wonder whether it was the fact that I was pursuing her or my method that upset her. She seems a little shy. Maybe it was more that her coworkers knowing about something like that would be horrible for her.
Matt wastes no time slicing off a huge piece. Before he shoves it in his mouth, he asks, “After you strike out, mind if I take a swing?”
I throw a scallop at him.
I do regret throwing it after I take a bite. They’re not quite as good as the burger Bea picked for me, but they’re the best scallops I’ve ever had by a wide margin. I can’t decide whether it’s because I’m a burger guy, or whether I just liked that she picked it.
I’d probably eat Matt’s weird old meat if she brought it.
Which is why I can’t just give up, even if she really is gay. Or worse, if she’s already decided she doesn’t like me.
6
Bea
Jake’s awake when I get home, reviewing his new script.
I ought to tell him that Easton showed up again. He’d be even more upset than I am, but for some reason, when I open my mouth to say the words, nothing comes out.
It’s really more of an Emerson conversation, but I can’t exactly call and badmouth Easton to his new brother-in-law.
“Tips good?” Jake asks when he looks up.
I shrug.
“My director wants to move filming up. I’d be starting two weeks earlier.”
“You’re leaving again?”
“I don’t know. I’ve only been home for ten days. I told Dave I wanted a solid break this time. I could just tell him no.”
“You could,” I say.
“Why do you say it like that?” He drops the script on the coffee table and stands.
“Like what?”
“Like, if I tell them no, I’m Jennifer Lopez or something.”
“I’m not saying you’re anywhere near her level, but if you’re making them delay their schedule because three weeks isn’t a long enough vacation for you. . .” I can’t help smiling. “I haven’t ever had three weeks off.”
“Filming’s hard.” He folds his arms.
“I know it is,” I say. “Wanna come wait some tables for me?”
“It’s not the same. It’s draining for me the whole time I’m filming, on and off set. Plus, I have to live in a hotel. At least you get to sleep in your own bed.”
“I have heard the Hyatt’s a tiresome place to stay.” I shake my head slowly.
“You’re kidding,” he says, “but—”
The computer dings.
“I’ve been checking,” he says. “Nothing so far.”
I don’t get many emails, so I’ve been obsessively watching my email since I submitted my jingle.
Which is really stupid.
It’s not like I really think they’re going to reply twenty-four hours after I submitted my song, but they did say the applications were rolling and that they’d make their decision quickly after the deadline. I submitted mine right at the end, but surely not everyone procrastinates.
When I step close enough to see the computer screen, it’s an email from someone about the upcoming local election. I groan.
“There’s a special place reserved down below for spammers.” He shakes his head. “They’re like a plague.”
“It’s fine,” I say.
Only, the finals is a few days away—they said they’ll call back just a handful of composers and select from between us with the client’s involvement. They can’t take too long to notify us, right?
I shower, brush my teeth, and put on my favorite pajamas. I’m in bed, almost asleep when I hear it. Another ding. Checking now is dumb. I should go to sleep.
