David headed toward the host stand, in case anyone came in while Kyra was in the back. And if he happened to glance over the iPad and the list of names waiting for a table, well, it wasn’t like this was a doctor’s office. They didn’t have to worry about HIPAA compliance or anything.
He scanned the list, spotted the names of a couple regulars, but not too many party-of-ones. But then, there it was, on the wait list for a table: Frank Allen.
Why did that sound so familiar?
David leaned forward and peered around the corner, trying to see the bar, but he couldn’t. He wracked his brain. Frank Allen… oh fuck!
Frank Allen was a food critic—probably the most notorious one in the whole metro area. Jeri had been trying to get him to visit Aspire ever since they opened, and now he was here? On her day off?
Sitting at the bar?
This was a disaster in the making.
David dashed back through the kitchen, narrowly avoiding Dannon, who was plating a pastry-wrapped Brie. He was white, short and stocky, with rosy cheeks and bright blue eyes that widened in surprise as David shouted a belated “Behind!”
He found Kyra right as she emerged from the restroom, tossing the paper towel she’d opened the door with into the trash can behind her.
She blinked at him. “What?”
“Frank Allen. At the bar,” David said. “You need to find him the best table you can, right now. He’s a critic. Jeri’s been expecting him.”
“Shit,” Kyra hissed as they plowed back through the kitchen once more. “Behind!” she called before David could.
Poor Dannon nearly dropped his bottle of chipotle honey.
“Get him settled as best you can,” David said. “Let me know once he’s seated, and I’ll take care of him.”
Brown eyes or not, David had to get this right. No way was he letting Jeri down.
“Got it.” Despite her constant teasing, Kyra knew when to get serious. “You go straighten your tie.”
She left him at the host stand. David looked in the glossy surface of the dark iPad. His tie was already perfect: peacock-blue and gold paisley patterns against midnight black, tied in an impeccable trinity knot he’d been practicing for months.
“You straighten your tie,” he muttered, though Kyra was out of earshot.
He did tug down the cuffs of his shirt, ran a quick thumb across his right eyebrow. He’d added a slit at his last lineup, and it was still crisp. His stomach did another uncomfortable flip, and his heart gave a little squeeze, but he was a professional. He was David Fucking Curtis, advanced sommelier, soon-to-be master sommelier. He’d handled critics before.
And he’d handled plenty of bedroom-eyed men before, too.
He knew what he was doing.
Kyra found Frank a two-seater in the corner—one that had technically been reserved, but they’d figure that out later. The table butted up against the window, with a view of the patio outside, the fading downtown twilight, and cars—plus those annoying electric scooters—zipping up and down Walnut. The ginkgo trees were fluttering in the September breeze; David could almost feel it.
Fall in Kansas City wasn’t New England levels of gorgeous, by any means, but it was full of good memories: warm apple cider, his mom’s pumpkin bread, trick-or-treating, going back to school. David was never that sad when summer ended. He liked his friends at school. Not that he’d made it to any of his high school reunions. The twentieth would be coming up soon.
But he had no time for reminiscing about the seasons. He put on his best smile—his secret weapon when it came to critics—and stepped up to Frank’s table.
“How’re you enjoying the rosé?”
“It’s so good.” Frank’s voice was mellow, a low tenor that David felt in his sternum. His smile was bright and open, far less guarded than David was expecting. Maybe this was all part of his game. “Tonya was right.”
“It’s one of my favorites,” David said. “Got a dozen cases of it this spring, and we’re nearly out. But I’ve got something special for you to try, if you’d like.”
He held out another glass of rosé, this one served in a Pinot Noir glass: the broader bowl would let it breathe more. It was a deeper blush, almost salmon colored. “Viña Tondonia Gran Reserva Rosado. 2012.”
Frank’s eyebrows raised.
“Twelve years in bottle?” he asked, staring into the glass. “I’ve never had one that old. And you sell it by the glass?”
