Chapter Seven #2
Helena, Ingrid, and Jacob sat. Cassian began to search for a steward. How strange that no one had come by to at least take their beverage orders.
Just as Cassian began thinking to himself that their lackluster service clearly meant that James mustn’t have been their steward, James locked eyes with him from across the room, and Cassian’s heart nearly flew out of his chest. James started over to their table, his eyes finding the floor halfway.
“Good evening, everyone,” James said, his voice trembling slightly.
He kept his eyes low, only flickering them up momentarily toward the table as a whole and not looking at Cassian individually.
“Drinks?” he spluttered, his face reddening.
“Sorry.” He blew out a long breath. “What kinds of beverages may I interest you in tonight?” He looked at Ethel. “For you, miss? Wine, perhaps?”
“Yes, please. White Burgundy would be wonderful,” she replied kindly.
Bit by bit, James moved around the table to take everyone’s beverage orders. He saved Cassian for last.
“And for you, sir?” he asked, coming up beside Cassian, his eyes fixed on a spot close to Cassian’s shoes.
Sympathy clutched at Cassian’s chest, and his heart began to ache.
Cassian hadn’t really considered how him sending James away so suddenly might have made the poor man feel.
Oh, James must have spent the rest of the afternoon thinking that their friendship had been ruined somehow. But that wasn’t the case at all.
Cassian wondered how he could communicate to James that everything was still fine between them. Or at least that everything was fine from Cassian’s perspective. No matter what strangeness had occurred between them earlier in the lounge.
“Are you speaking to my shoes, Mr. Morrow?” Cassian teased. “Or to me?”
“Sorry,” James blurted out softly. He lifted his eyes to meet Cassian’s, and his face reddened. “What would you like this evening, sir?”
“I’ll have a Bordeaux, same as last night,” Cassian replied. “After all, nothing has changed since then, has it?”
“N-no, sir,” James said. “I’ll, uhm, fetch that for you.”
Quickly, James turned and left. Cassian frowned at the spot on the floor where James had been standing. Had James really not caught the meaning behind his words? If not, then perhaps Cassian would have to be a bit more obvious (if such a thing could even be possible in these circumstances).
After James returned with everyone’s beverages, he proceeded to take people’s orders. Cassian had initially planned on ordering the chicken with bread sauce but reconsidered when he spotted a second opportunity to relay a message to James in secret.
“And for you, sir?” James asked, his eyes flickering up to Cassian’s face before falling to the floor again. “Which of the main courses would you like?”
“Well, Mr. Morrow, I’m afraid that I’m having trouble deciding.
You see, I’m very particular about the cuts of meat that I enjoy, especially when it comes to beef.
I really do like leaner cuts, like sirloin, but sometimes, if they’re not properly prepared, I find them to be too chewy, not to mention lacking in flavor.
However, seeing as we are on one of the most luxurious ships in the world, I’m inclined to think that the chefs here would make the beef to my liking.
” Leaning back, Cassian steepled his hands and caught James’s eye. “What are your thoughts?”
“Uh . . . I . . . I mean, I . . .”
Cassian smiled. “Because I trust you, Mr. Morrow. I trust your judgement when it comes to the meals served here by the White Star Line. And, so far, you’ve been nothing but a competent server. One who has provided exceptional service throughout our voyage.”
Slowly, James lifted his chin. His bottom lip trembled a little, and Cassian’s heart splintered from the mere sight of it wobbling like that. Affection nearly overtook him, and he smiled as comfortingly as he could.
“Exceptional friend service, James,” Cassian wished he could say. “Never middling. Not even once.”
James let out a breath and blinked a few times in rapid succession, clearly overwhelmed.
“Thank you, Mr. Livingston. I promise the meat will be flavorful. In fact, I’ll make sure it is. I’ll make sure that it’s perfect.”
“Alright, then, I’ll have the sirloin of beef, but with the horseradish sauce on the side.”
“Fine choice. Exceptional choice.”
Cassian let out a breathy laugh. “Thank you.”
James hurried off, and Cassian pursed his lips to temper his smile. Across from him, Jacob chuckled.
“Cassian, I think that poor man was trying not to cry,” he said.
“I can be rather intimidating, I’m afraid,” Cassian said with a shrug.
“He made one of our waiters cry once,” Ethel said. “In New York.”
Everyone laughed a bit, and Cassian rolled his eyes.
“Don’t make me out to be some sort of monster, sweetheart,” he chided with a light scoff. “All I said to the man was that he’d have been better off choosing some other kind of work. I was merely being helpful.”
Ethel hummed, a teasing smile pulling at her lips.
“Oh, Cassian,” she said.
Cheeks warming, Cassian couldn’t help but laugh at himself for a moment, though unease settled in his stomach only seconds later.
He hoped that he hadn’t been too harsh on James at any point on their voyage so far.
He might have been, had James forgotten the potatoes the previous evening.
But, of course, James had surprised him with the ridiculously large platter of them instead.
So, then, Cassian hadn’t needed to chastise him at all. And they’d been friends ever since.
Their appetizers arrived shortly, and they all enjoyed their soups and oysters while waiting for their main courses.
Cassian chatted with Jacob about their previous voyages across the Atlantic, and both men shared the opinion that their experiences on Titanic so far very much surpassed all previous ones.
Cassian was one-third into his second Bordeaux when James came back carrying everyone’s main courses on one large, flat tray, which he had firmly balanced on one of his shoulders.
One by one, James placed the plates in front of each passenger, once again saving Cassian for last. When James reached him, he and Cassian exchanged small, but hopefully meaningful smiles as James lowered Cassian’s plate in front of him.
But then Cassian saw that the perfect-looking cuts of beef were topped with horseradish sauce, and his face fell.
“Oh, no,” James said from beside him, apparently having realized his error before Cassian even had a chance to voice it.
“Oh, God.” Cassian’s eyes snapped up to meet his.
James’s face was contorted into an expression of horror.
“Cassian. Mr. Livingston. I-I’m so sorry.
I forgot about the sauce. I forgot and I shouldn’t have forgotten and there’s no excuse for my forgetting. ”
Cassian’s splintered heart swelled with more fondness and sympathy than he would have ever thought possible. Oh, this poor, sweet man. Did James really think that Cassian would be that harsh with him? Even after everything they’d shared over the last twenty-something hours?
“Don’t worry about it, Mr. Morrow,” Cassian said, trying to sound positive. “I’m sure I’ll still enjoy it.”
“I’ll have the chef make a new one for you,” James said, reaching for the plate.
Cassian caught it with his hand before James could take it. “It’s not necessary.”
“It is,” James said, pulling the plate toward him.
Gently, Cassian pulled back. “It’s not.”
James pulled some more. “I want to fix it.”
“But there’s nothing to fix,” Cassian countered with a soft chuckle, pulling the plate back toward him yet again.
“Yes, there is,” James said in a measured tone. “I clearly failed to provide the exceptional service—”
“You haven’t,” Cassian clipped, a small spark of irritation flaring inside him.
“But—”
“James.”
James recoiled, releasing the plate. And since Cassian hadn’t stopped pulling on it, he inadvertently jerked the plate toward himself, causing one of the pieces of steak to flop over the edge and land in his lap.
James’s hands flew to his mouth, and as a result, he released the empty serving tray, which then landed on the floor with a clatter.
Several people gasped. Heat rushed to Cassian’s cheeks.
James’s face, too, turned a vibrant shade of red.
Cassian shut his eyes and clenched his teeth, his heartbeat now thundering in his ears.
“Oh no!” Ethel exclaimed.
Cassian pushed past his embarrassment and tried to catch James’s eyes.
“I’m not mad,” he said, keeping his voice even.
Only partially a lie. Cassian was, in fact, a little mad. About many, many things.
Rather than reply, James remained frozen in shock. Cassian needed to help him.
“I’m not mad,” he tried for a second time. “But I’d like to have a couple of extra napkins, for obvious reasons, as well as a new plate of food. Whether the sauce is served over the meat or on the side is immaterial to me, so long as it isn’t in my lap.”
Cassian forced a strained smile, one that probably wasn’t very convincing considering how rattled he felt in that moment, not to mention the irritation still coursing through his veins.
“Sorry,” James eked out in a whisper before turning to leave.
Cassian watched him walk out of the saloon. Humiliated.
Letting out a sigh, Cassian brought his fingers to his forehead. Ethel placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Goodness, how unprofessional it was of him to hurry off like that.”
Muscles immediately tensing, Cassian bit his tongue to keep himself from chastising her for the comment.
Because, unfortunately, Ethel was right.
Of course James was being unprofessional.
But the poor man was only being unprofessional because Cassian had hurt him.
He’d been curt with James earlier in the lounge, and he hadn’t made up for it, even a little.
Whatever had transpired between them back then had been Cassian’s fault. Either equally or wholly, Cassian wasn’t certain, but regardless, James had been nothing but sweet, both then and now.
Cassian glared at the hunk of meat in his lap, pinched it between his fingers so that he could lift it, and then plopped it back onto his plate.
“If you’ll all excuse me, I need to change.” He stood up slowly. “It looks as though I’ll be having my meal in my room this evening.”
Cassian started toward the reception room, the faint, apologetic responses of his companions only a murmur in his ears as he walked off. He headed for the elevators.
Once Cassian was inside one of them, he looked over at the steward manning it and asked, “Where would a crew member—specifically, a first-class steward—most likely be in between their shifts?”
“Scotland Road, I would think,” the elevator steward replied.
“Perfect.” Cassian smoothed his lapels. “Scotland Road, then.”