Swallowing my last bite as the big hand hit twelve and the little hand six, I was out the kitchen doors. I took in the few people already lined up, waiting to be seated for breakfast. Shelby, the hostess, was struggling as usual to make it happen, so I decided to wade in.
I went over and started directing suits and a few spa ladies where to sit. At the end of the line was a tall guy with a full head of mussed jet-black hair. He was wearing a gray pinstripe suit and brown wingtips, and had his head buried in a newspaper, his wild hair such a contradiction to the rest of his expensively clad, well-heeled body.
“Excuse me? Do you want a table,” I asked.
He flipped the paper down, peering over the top of it, and his crystal-blue eyes sharpened. A series of expressions flitted over his face, first hurt or sadness, then morphing into what looked suspiciously like lust. In the end the man continued to stand there, saying nothing and looking bewildered.
Weird.
Unnerved, I stared back at him for much too long, but his gaze mesmerized me, capturing my body, mind, and soul in a way I wasn’t familiar with. It left me wanting to stare forever.
What the eff, Bess? Stare forever? Just seat the damn guy.
“Are you ready to sit for breakfast,” I asked, using my professional tone as a shield. I wasn’t on the menu, and definitely wasn’t one of the specials.
He cleared his throat and said, “Yes. Table for one.” Then he added, “Please.”
“Right this way.”
In the end, I didn’t seat him in my section. I had no desire to deal with his stuffy weirdness.
