8. Eric #2
“What? I’m just saying. I’m sixty-two years old.
I don’t have unlimited time here, and you’re not getting any less stubborn.
At this point I’ll settle for a girlfriend.
A real one, not those models who laugh at everything you say and don’t know how to boil water.
Someone who actually sees you. Someone who makes you make that face you’re making right now.
” She sighs dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest like a stage actress.
“But sure, take your time. I’ll just be here.
Waiting. Wondering if I’ll ever have grandchildren to spoil or if I should just adopt a cat and talk to it about my disappointments. ”
“You’re allergic to cats.”
“I’ll suffer. For the drama. I’ll sneeze through every conversation about how my only son is married to his restaurants.”
I can’t help it. I laugh, really laugh, and some of the tension I’ve been carrying for days loosens in my chest. She grins at me, pleased with herself, triumphant in the way she always is when she makes me laugh despite myself.
But then her hand finds mine on the step, her fingers wrapping around my palm, and her voice softens into something serious.
“I just want to see you happy, sweetheart. Really happy, not successful-happy, not busy-happy. You are the only thing I have in this world. The only thing that matters. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for you.
Someone to come home to. Someone who knows you.
Someone you can’t buy and can’t impress and can’t charm, so you have to just be yourself. ”
I squeeze her hand. Don’t say anything. Don’t have to. She’s always been able to hear what I don’t say.
“Now go.” She shoos me away with her free hand, the gesture so familiar it makes my chest ache. “Go to your restaurant. Make your money. Stare at this woman who makes you crazy. But think about what I said.”
“Which part?”
“All of it. Every word.” She stands, groaning slightly as her knees protest, and I stand too, ready to catch her if she needs it. She never does. “And bring me back some of that bread next time. The rosemary one. The good one with the crust.”
“Always.”
I kiss her forehead, bending down to reach her. She holds my face for a second with both hands, studying me like she’s memorizing my features, like she’s seeing something in me I can’t see myself.
“She must be something special,” she says quietly, barely above a whisper. “To get under your skin like this. To make you forget my bread.”
I don’t answer. I don’t have to.
She already knows.
***
The drive to the restaurant takes another fifteen minutes through Friday traffic. I turn on the radio, listen to half a song, turn it off. Tap my fingers on the steering wheel to a rhythm that doesn’t exist. Check my mirrors too often. Adjust the air conditioning twice.
My mother’s words won’t leave me alone. She must be something special.
I think about the way Valentina looked at me when I asked her to sit down for dinner, not impressed by the expensive wine, the power I was obviously trying to wield.
Not flattered that the owner of sixty-five restaurants wanted her company.
Just suspicious. Guarded. Like I was a trap she was too smart to fall into, like she was waiting for the catch, the string attached, the moment when my generosity would reveal itself as something else entirely.
She’s been burned. That much is obvious. Not just by her husband and his betrayal, but by something deeper, something that taught her that help always costs more than it’s worth, that kindness is just manipulation wearing a pleasant mask.
I want to prove her wrong. I want to be the person who doesn’t want anything from her except her.
But that’s the problem, isn’t it? I do want something. I want her. And she knows it. She can probably see it every time I look at her, which is why she won’t look back.
I pull into the restaurant parking lot, cut the engine, and sit there for a moment longer than I should. The lot is full, which means it’s a good night, which means I should be inside reviewing the floor, checking on the kitchen, doing any of the hundred things an owner should do on a busy Friday.
Instead I’m sitting in my car like a teenager working up the nerve to walk into a party.
This is a bad idea. Whatever I’m doing, whatever I’m chasing, whatever I’m feeling, it’s a bad idea. She’s married. She’s broken. She’s made it clear she doesn’t want me anywhere near her personal life.
I go inside anyway.
The restaurant is packed. Every table full, the noise level a constant hum of conversation and laughter and clinking glasses, the Friday night energy that means good tips for the servers and good numbers for the books.
Candles flicker on white tablecloths. The smell of garlic and wine and fresh bread fills the air.
Servers weave between tables with practiced grace, and the hostess greets a new couple at the door with Le D?ner Charmant’s signature warmth.
I take my usual corner booth, the one with a clear sightline to the entire floor, and pull out the inventory reports I’m supposedly here to review. Numbers and columns and data that should have my attention.
Valentina is at table 9, reciting the specials.
She’s avoiding me. I can tell by the angle of her shoulders, the way she’s positioned herself with her back to my corner, the way she hasn’t once glanced in my direction even though she has to know I’m here.
The entire staff knows when I’m here. Word travels faster than wildfire through a restaurant kitchen.
She tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear as she writes down an order.
She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, those black pants hugging the curve of her hips in a way that makes it hard to focus on anything else.
She smiles at the customers, a family of four with two young kids, and it’s a real smile, the kind that reaches her eyes, not the guarded expression she wears whenever I’m near.
I want that smile. I want to be the reason for it.
Marco, the floor manager, appears at my booth with a status update I barely hear. Something about the kitchen running behind on appetizers. Something about a party of twelve arriving in an hour. I nod in the right places, say the right things, give the right orders. But my eyes keep drifting.
Marco thinks I’m here to audit operations, and I let him think it.
The kitchen staff walks on eggshells whenever I’m in the building, double-checking every plate, triple-checking every order.
Let them. It keeps them sharp. But that’s not why I’m here, and we all know it, even if no one’s willing to say it out loud.
Sophia passes my table for the third time in twenty minutes, her perfume arriving before she does, sweet and heavy and trying too hard.
“Mr. Bailey, can I get you anything? More water? A different wine perhaps? We just got a lovely Barolo in, I know it’s your favorite.”
“I’m fine, Sophia. Thank you.”
She lingers, adjusting the flower in the small vase on my table that doesn’t need adjusting.
“It’s so nice to see you here more often lately.
The staff really appreciates it. I really appreciate it.
” Her hand brushes my shoulder as she reaches for the vase, and I have to resist the urge to lean away.
“That will be all.”
Her smile flickers, but she recovers quickly, nodding and moving to the next table. I don’t watch her go. I’m too busy watching Valentina refill water glasses at table 11 like it’s the most important task in the world, like those glasses are the only thing standing between her and disaster.
That uniform should be illegal on her. I’ve seen a hundred women in that same black and white combination, and none of them made it look like that.
The way the fabric strains slightly across her chest when she reaches for something.
The way the pants fit like they were tailored for her specifically, for those hips, that waist. There’s a small mole just visible above her left collarbone when her shirt shifts as she moves, a tiny imperfection that I’ve thought about putting my mouth on for three straight nights.
I need to stop this. I need to focus on the reports. I need to be the professional owner of this establishment, not a man obsessed with a woman who wants nothing to do with him.
She’s at table 12 now. A group of loud men, five of them, clearly several drinks deep already, the kind of table servers dread because the tips are unpredictable and the behavior even more so.
They’re in expensive suits that don’t fit quite right, finance types probably, the kind who think money makes them important and alcohol makes them charming.
The one at the head of the table, gray suit with a loosened tie, has been staring at her every time she turns around. I noticed it ten minutes ago. I’ve been tracking it since, telling myself I’m overreacting, telling myself she can handle it, telling myself it’s none of my business.
She approaches with their check in its leather folder. Professional smile in place. Shoulders squared. She says something I can’t hear over the restaurant noise, probably asking if they need anything else, if everything was satisfactory.
His hand lands on her waist.
I see it happen in slow motion. His thick fingers settling on the curve of her hip like he has any right to touch her, like she’s part of the service he’s paid for.
She stiffens. Says something I still can’t hear, but I can read her body language from across the room, the careful politeness, the attempt to de-escalate. She tries to step back.
His hand slides lower. His fingers spread across her hip, thumb pressing into the small of her back, pulling her closer.
I’m on my feet before I realize I’ve moved. The inventory reports scatter across the table. Someone might have called my name.