6. Valentina
— ? —
Valentina
The VIP reservation comes in during the afternoon lull, and Marco pulls me aside with an expression I’ve never seen on his face before.
“Me?” I blink at him. “Shouldn’t Sophia take it? She has seniority.”
“Sophia is off tonight.” Marco’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “You’re my best option. Don’t screw this up.”
The weight of his words settles on my shoulders as I spend the rest of the afternoon preparing. I polish the silverware myself, double-check the table setting, memorize the evening’s specials until I can recite them backward.
Marianna finds me in the back, practicing my wine descriptions under my breath.
“Big night?” she asks, grinning.
“Apparently. Marco won’t tell me who it is, just that they’re important.”
“Ooh, mysterious.” She nudges my shoulder. “Maybe it’s a celebrity. Or a food critic.”
“Or a serial killer who only eats at fine dining establishments.”
“That would definitely be more interesting than a food critic.”
We laugh, but my nerves don’t settle. Something about the way Marco looked at me, the tension in his shoulders, the careful way he chose his words. This isn’t just an important guest. This is something else.
The evening rush comes and goes. I handle my other tables on autopilot, my attention constantly drifting to table 20, still empty, still waiting.
At eight-fifteen, Marco catches my eye and nods toward the entrance.
He’s here.
I smooth my apron, check my hair in the reflection of a wine glass, and make my way toward the table. The man is already seated, his back to me, studying a magazine. Expensive suit, perfectly tailored. A Rolex glinting on his wrist. He looks like he owns the place.
“Good evening, sir.” I put on my best professional smile. “My name is Valentina, and I will be serving you today.”
“Valentina?”
He looks up.
The world stops.
Dark eyes. Dark hair pushed back from his forehead. A jaw that could cut glass. The mysterious waiter from that first night, the one who bandaged my hand and asked no questions, the one I’ve been looking for every shift without admitting to myself that I was looking.
But he’s not in a waiter’s uniform. He’s in a suit that costs more than three months of my salary, and he’s looking at me with recognition dawning in his eyes, and suddenly everything Marianna said about the owner clicks into place.
Eric Bailey. The owner. The man half the staff loses their minds over.
The man who held my bleeding hand and told me to wait.
“You look like you saw a ghost,” he says, and there’s a hint of amusement in his voice, a warmth that wasn’t there a moment ago.
“I’m sorry, sir. I just-” I take a breath, force myself back into professionalism. “How can I help you?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. He’s studying me, those dark eyes taking in every detail - my uniform, my pinned-back hair, the way I’m gripping my notepad like a lifeline. The scrutiny should make me uncomfortable, but instead I feel heat rising to my cheeks, spreading down my neck.
“I’ll start with the wine list,” he says finally. “The Chateau Margaux, if you have it.”
“Of course, sir.”
I serve him with hands that tremble only slightly, pouring the wine, taking his order, maintaining the professional distance that’s supposed to exist between server and guest. But every time I approach the table, every time our eyes meet, the distance feels thinner, more fragile.
He orders enough food for three people. Course after course, as if he’s trying to extend the meal indefinitely. And each time I bring a new dish, he asks me something. Small things - how I like the wine, whether I’ve tried the steak, if the dessert is as good as he remembers.
I answer in brief, professional sentences. Yes sir, no sir, our steak is one of the best in the city.
“Thank you, sir,” I say after setting down his entrée. “I’ll take your order for the next course whenever you’re ready.”
“Wait.”
His hand catches mine. Not grabbing, not forceful, just a gentle pressure that stops me in my tracks. His fingers are warm against my skin, and I remember suddenly, viscerally, the way those same fingers pressed against my bleeding thumb to stop the flow.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
The question is simple, but it opens a door I’ve been keeping firmly shut. I think about the motel room, the garbage bags, Sebastian’s texts demanding I sign away my life. I think about the month I’ve spent learning to carry trays and smile at customers who treat me like furniture.
“I just started working here,” I say. “Around a month ago.”
“Oh, I see.”
A pause. He’s still holding my hand, still looking at me with those unreadable dark eyes.
“What about you?” The question escapes before I can stop it. “I thought you worked here too.”
“Well, technically I still work here.” A ghost of a smile. “Just not as a waiter.”
“Oh, okay.” I don’t understand, but I don’t press. It’s not my place.
“How is your cut?”
I look down at my thumb automatically. The wound healed weeks ago, leaving only a faint white line as evidence.
“It’s fine. It already healed.”
“I’m glad.” His smile widens slightly. “I think I did a good job.”
“I guess.” The word comes out awkward, uncertain. My cheeks are burning now, and I’m suddenly hyperaware of how close we’re standing, how his thumb is tracing small circles on the back of my hand.
“Mm.” I pull my hand away, take a step back. “I think I will notify the kitchen with your order.”
I don’t wait for his response. I turn and walk as quickly as I can without running, past the bar, past the hostess stand, into the bathroom where I lock myself in a stall and press my palms against my face.
My heart is racing. My hands are shaking. I look at myself in the mirror - cheeks flushed, eyes too bright, breath coming too fast - and I want to laugh at the absurdity of it all.
The mysterious waiter is the owner. The man I’ve been unconsciously searching for every shift is my boss. And I’m standing here trembling like a teenager because he touched my hand.
The door opens. Marianna’s voice.
“Val, are you okay?”
“Yes.” I splash water on my face, force myself to calm down. “I’m okay.”
“Oh, the order for table 20 is ready.”
“I’ll go. Thank you.”
I check my reflection one more time. Fix my hair, straighten my uniform, press my palms against my cheeks until the flush fades. Professional, I remind myself. You are a professional.
I return to the floor, pick up his order from the kitchen, and make my way back to table 20 with carefully measured steps.
He’s watching me approach. I can feel his gaze like a physical weight, tracking my movements across the restaurant.
“Here you are, sir.” I set out the dishes with practiced efficiency, grateful for something to do with my hands. “Is there anything else you need?”
“Do you like steak?”
The question catches me off guard. “Yes, who doesn’t love steak? Our steak is one of the best in the city.”
“What about this?” He points to another plate - the short rib, braised for twelve hours, one of the most expensive items on the menu.
“Yes, this plate is made with a red wine reduction and-” I catch myself, force the description back. “It’s very popular.”
“Well then.” He gestures to the empty chair across from him. “You can join me.”
“Eh? Join you?”
“Yes, didn’t you say you like the food at the table?”
“I’m sorry, sir.” I’m gripping my notepad so hard my knuckles are white. “I thought you were asking about the quality of the food.”
“But you said you liked it.” His eyes are dancing with something that might be amusement. “So you can sit. And please don’t call me sir. You didn’t call me sir that day.”
“I didn’t call you sir because I wasn’t serving you.” I take a breath, steady myself. “I’m sorry, I can’t sit here. I’m working.”
“What if you stop working?”
“Haha.” The laugh sounds fake even to my own ears. “I see you like joking.”
“I do. Sometimes.”
“Well, I have to keep working. There are other people who need to be attended to.”
I gesture vaguely at the restaurant, but even as I say it, I’m aware of how empty the room has become. The dinner rush has faded, leaving only a handful of lingering guests nursing their drinks.
“I don’t see a lot of people,” he says, as if reading my thoughts. “It’s already very late.”
“But they might come. Or maybe they need me in the kitchen.” I’m grasping now, looking for any excuse.
“I think it would be very inappropriate to sit at a client’s table during my shift.
I would accept if you were still wearing that waiter uniform from last time and if I weren’t in the middle of a shift. ”
“Well, if that is the problem, I can just go and get changed.”
“Well, I’m still working.”
He looks at me for a long moment. Then he smiles, slow and deliberate, and something in my chest flutters.
“You have officially ended your shift, Miss Valentina.”
“What?” The word comes out too loud, too shocked. “What are you talking about?”
“Do I still need to get my waiter uniform for you to eat with me?”
Before I can respond, he turns his head slightly and calls out, “Marco.”
The manager appears instantly, materializing at the tableside as if he’d been waiting for the summons. “Yes, sir.”
“Valentina won’t be able to assist the next table. Send somebody to cover her.”
“Yes, sir.”
Marco disappears. I stand frozen, notepad still clutched in my hands, mind racing to catch up with what just happened.
The owner of the restaurant just ended my shift.
So I would eat dinner with him.