A cheerful-looking host, dressed in a white blouse and black pants, walked up to us, and I had to stop myself from commending her on what a good job she was doing.
I’m on a date. I need to chill for the next two hours.
“Table for two, under the name Harvey Barlow,” he told the host, and she nodded.
Harvey still hadn’t forgotten my profession. “How ironic that you leave one restaurant and head to another, eh?” he said in an undertone while our host picked out two menus for us.
Despite my best efforts, I found that I was irritated.
I took a deep breath. “Of course this is the right thing to do. Having a date show up at a restaurant you work at is not wise.”
It would be preferable, especially with a back door whose exact location I could find with my eyes shut, but not wise.
“You wouldn’t want a date with your coworkers watching every move you make, would you?” I asked with a smile.
“We’ve got you at your favorite table right here,” the host said as she led the way.
I looked around at the booths nestled against clear glass windows with a view of the street. The restaurant was packed with people, and it surprised me we could even get a spot.
I took a quick look at Harvey. This restaurant had beenopen only for a couple of months, and yet he was a regular? Before I could dissect that statement, the host was showing us to a small table that was by the kitchen doors. The smile fell off my face, but Harvey was beaming.
“I always ask for this table. It helps me see all the dishes the serving staff brings out of the kitchen, so I know what to order the next time,” Harvey insisted while he sat down.
The host smiled at me weakly. The kitchen doors flew open three times in the duration I took to sit down in my chair. This would not be the date where I got to have an actual conversation.
The host handed us two menus, but before she could leave, Harvey stopped her.
“A tequila shot for me, please,” he said.
She nodded and looked at me, but I shook my head.
“I need a minute to decide what I’d like,” I said, reaching for the drinks card, and she said she’d give me a few minutes.
I scanned the menu quickly before turning to Harvey. “So, if you’re a regular here, what do you recommend?” I asked.
Harvey smiled. “A woman who’s open to my suggestions! There aren’t enough of you to go around,” he said while my mouth fell open.
This was not looking good.
He took a sip of water and continued, “I knew this date would go just great.” He turned to the waitress, who arrived with his drink. “She’ll have the Jägerbomb,” he said with a naughty wink.
I stared at him in surprise just as the waitress nodded and walked away before I could disagree.
When I set the drinks card down, I saw Harvey hademptied his tequila. This date was proceeding too fast for my liking.
As I watched, he leaned toward me, and his hand slid across the table and settled over mine.
I looked at him, and his eyes were staring directly into mine, a little too intensely. I pulled my hand back and looked away, breaking his gaze. Why was Harvey affecting an intimacy we did not share yet? It was our first date, for heaven’s sake.
“Sorry, I just have extremely rough fingers,” I said, hoping I was using a reasonable excuse.
Who the heck is this guy? Why did the dating app think we were a good match?
“From working at your restaurant? I’m not surprised,” Harvey said as he reached for his glass of water. Taking a sip, he set it down and gave me a lofty look. “Do you know your restaurant has an abysmal forty-nine reviews on Google?” he asked.
I had an awkward feeling about this. Of course I knew. I woke up every morning with a minimum of five ideas to improve my restaurant’s marketing, ideas that would never face the light of day because everything needed money.
Harvey did not seem to notice anything awkward about his statement.
