Cassian’s stomach fluttered. He moved to hand the man the cardstock, but at the last second, he pulled his hand back a bit, rightbefore the other man could take it from him, and the two locked eyes.
Cassian couldn’t help but relish those extra couple of moments of enjoying the man’s smile, no matter how performative and practiced it might have been.
Once the man finally took Cassian’s menu from him, he left to relay their orders to the kitchen. Soon enough, Cassian had his Bordeaux, and once the effects of his second glass began to take hold, some of the tension he’d been feeling finally eased, enabling him to better enjoy his bread and soup. Lucky for him, Helena and Mr. Quinn kept the conversation flowing, and Ethel seemed to be in happy spirits throughout. Cassian himself was feeling much better, his worries over his and Ethel’s relationship momentarily tempered.
After a half hour or so, his main course came out. Mr. Cheeks (as Cassian had so lovingly named his new favorite steward in the privacy of his head) placed Cassian’s plate in front of him. But there were no potatoes.
Irritation spiked in Cassian’s blood, and he opened his mouth to complain, but then the steward set a large silver platter on the table next to his main meal—one containingonlypotatoes. Much too many of them for Cassian to eat. Cassian reeled back a bit, staring at the massive heap on the platter.
Over at the next table, Jacob Calbot laughed heartily.
“Did you order a week’s worth of potatoes, Mr. Livingston?”
Cassian’s cheeks warmed. “I ordered the exact normal amount.”
Everyone at both tables chuckled.
Cassian looked up at the steward, intending to chastise him, but then he caught sight of the man’s eager smile and paused. Mr. Cheeks seemed proud of himself, somehow.
“I...” Cassian’s voicefaltered. “Why are there so many?”
“I had to sneak them,” the man said with a somewhat playful lilt in his voice. He huffed a soft laugh before shrugging one of his shoulders innocently. “Apparently, it’s not in the chef’s vision to have the chateau potatoes served with the roasted duckling. But I knew you’d still want them. So, I took one of the platters.”
Cassian crooked an eyebrow. He looked back at the potatoes and then at the steward.
“Oh.”
He honestly had no idea how to respond.
“Enjoy your meal, sir,” the man said with a nod. “Call for me if you need anything.”
Narrowing his eyes, Cassian folded his hands together in his lap as he continued to stare at the surprisingly competent steward. His stomach fluttered for a second time.
Lowering his voice to a whisper, Cassian said, “And what name should I call you when I’m calling for you?”
He’d been unable to keep the hint of flirtatiousness from his voice thanks to the wine. Why couldn’t he seem to help himself around this man?
After a pause, the steward’s mouth curled to form a small, crooked smile.
“James.”
Chapter Three
James
James had a thirty-minute break before he was scheduled to work inTitanic’s First-Class Smoking Room, where he’d serve hard liquors and cigars to the men who were relaxing there. He exhaled a soft sigh and let his thoughts meander while loitering in the now-empty saloon.
First, he thought of home. His chest began to ache, and he wondered how Maggie was fairing. Hopefully she and the new footman were getting along all right, though James imagined that Maggie might resent the other man a bit for having replaced him, regardless of whether or not that resentment was warranted. James nearly laughed as he thought of Maggie’s tendency to speak with a slightly sharp tongue whenever she felt that someone had slighted her. He imagined her lashing out at the poor footman, one who probably hadn’t ever been more than a hall boy before.
Oh, Mags, he thought,please be kind to the poor man. He’s only trying to earn some money, same as me, same as everyone.
If only he could write to her now to remind her of this.
Eager to ease the heartache that was now sitting heavy in his chest, James shifted his thoughts to something lighter. He began replaying the interactions he’d had with that snobbish fellowwhom he’d first met on the boat train that morning and had then later served in the saloon.
Jesus, that man... he was something else. Something to look at, certainly—brown hair that was meticulously styled and combed back, not a strand out of place; intense eyes that were the color of warm chestnuts; strong cheekbones that were somehow both severe and soft at the same time. Heat rushed to James’s face at the mere thought of him.
James then closed his eyes as the man’s final remark—And what name should I call you when I’m calling for you?—echoed in his mind, and the words caused his stomach to tumble. He considered forcing himself to focus on something else but then paused.
