And then another message.
I'll be done in a minute. Just gotta make her come. I'll find you.
I roll my eyes.
“Girlfriend trouble?” the waiter asks.
“Don’t do girlfriends,” I reply. “I’m here with someone but he’s… busy.”
“So maybe you should get busy too,” the waiter replies. He sips from the bottle of gin again.
“Are you supposed to do that while working?” I am acting like a judgy schoolmarm or something. Typical me, my ex would say. Killjoy at heart. But seriously, something about this guy is off. And he looks familiar, but I’ve never been to Monaco before and he doesn’t have an Australian or British accent, which are the two places I’ve spent the majority of my time in the last several years. London for school and Australia because it’s home. His accent is faint. He speaks nearly perfect English but the struggle with the Hs and Rs makes me realize he’s probably French. That’s a common language in Monaco.
“Your brain is spinning. Why?” he asks me.
I shake my head. “Nothing. Never mind. Do you know the way off this ship?”
“Yep,” he replies and then tilts his head like he’s a puppy that heard a dog whistle. “But what just ran through your head? Because your expression just flickered with something sad. Like dark sad.”
I twist up my features like I'm confused and hope he believes it. Then I rub the back of my neck. The collar on this shirt is too loose because it's one of Billy's, so I yanked off the tie and shoved it in my pocket a long time ago. "Not sad, just annoyed. I'm kind of over this scene and just want to go home."
“Home?” the waiter questions. “Aussie, right?”
I nod. “Yeah. But I’m staying at a hotel. Visiting a friend.”
The waiter is still staring and the intensity of his gaze is a little much. But I like it. I wonder if he’s gay. He’s giving off the vibe, but I mean, I could just be projecting because I find him so attractive. “So can I like get a general direction from you? Left? Right? Where do I go?”
He takes another long sip from the open liquor bottle and then jerks his head, his shaggy light brown hair flipping back off his forehead. “Follow me.”
He turns and walks and I follow. I don’t know if I should, but… I mean he doesn’tseemlike a serial killer. Then again, my taste in men hasn’t been great lately. Or, like, ever. My ex seemed nice, and kind, and not the type of guy who would dump me out of the blue, but he did. And then he gaslit me by making it feel like I deserved it for spending so much time at work. My company was months old and he knew it would consume me in the beginning. He even suggested he come work for me, so we could spend time together. He started being cold and cruel when I said I didn't think it was a good idea.
The waiter stops walking. He led me through the kitchen and now we’re in a narrow passage that is unlike every other part of the yacht, empty. Probably because the sign on the door he pushed open said “crew-only”. “You’ve got a dark, morose look on your incredibly attractive face. Are you sure this isn’t the work of a girl?.”
He’s half smiling and I’m too stunned by the compliment to filter my response appropriately, so I blurt out, “Aguy. He dumped me.”
All the merriment and brashness slip from his features. "Well, then he's an idiot. You should know that."
I swallow and feel heat crawl up my neck to my cheeks. “He had some arguably decent points. I…”
All of a sudden his finger is pressed to my lips, so I can't move them. His skin is smooth and warm and soft. Not working class hands. Why does he look so familiar? He steps closer to me, his eyes searching mine. "Don't be that guy that explains away someone else's mistakes. You are too good-looking. He fucked up. You deserve better."
His finger drops from my lips. “You don’t know me.”
“You’re right I don’t,” he replies. “But I still think you deserve better than you think you deserve. What does that say?”
“So… that exit?” I don’t want to be psychoanalyzed by a waiter, no matter how hot he is, but what bugs me the most is he sounds like Billy. Billy has also told me I deserve better. It’s been the only bone of contention in our friendship. But if my best friend thinks it, and this stranger thinks it, maybe it’s true?
The waiter turns and starts walking again. The farther we walk down this corridor the quieter it gets. The thump of the DJ's music and the buzz of the chatter and laughter has dimmed significantly. He stops at the end of the hall, which parts to go left and right, and turns to me again. It's such an abrupt motion that I fail to stop before I bump into him. He uses his hand not holding the booze to grab my hip. His grip is firm and sends a spark of desire exploding like an errant firework in my abdomen. I'm glad he left that empty tray in the kitchen as we passed through.
“It’s not even midnight yet,” the waiter says, “but it’s close. And if you leave now, you’re going to ring in the New Year alone in the back of an Uber.”
“It feels like a fitting end to a shitty year,” I mutter. His hand hasn’t moved from my hip. It should. I should step back so it does.
I don't move. I feel his fingers tighten a little and his expression looks earnest. He is truly a breath-taking man. He's clean-shaven, like me, and his tanned skin with an olive undertone is spectacular. His chin is dimpled. His lashes thick. His hair thicker. His lips just the right amount of plump and those eyes… Blue is my favorite color and eyes like his remind me why.
“I’ve had a shit year too, but here’s the thing,” he says and steps a little closer. “The new year isn’t about the past, it’s about the future. And I, for one, refuse to start next year as shitty as I end this one.”
“People who look like you don’t have shitty years,” I blurt out. God, I’m such a loser. Who says things like that?
