“I’ll pay if you need me to,” I whispered. She glared at me likeshut the hell up.
“Is there a problem, ma’am?” The server asked. She looked tired, like maybe she had a kid or two at home and didn’t get much sleep.
“I found this in my pie,” Melissa said, presenting her the hair.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, ma’am. I’ll get you another piece right away.” The woman reached in to scoop it up, but Melissa halted her with her hand.
“I’d like to speak with your manager.”
The woman glanced around. “He’s not here, ma’am.”
“Then I want to speak with your head chef.”
“The cook? He doesn’t make the pies, ma’am.”
“Now, please,” Melissa demanded with the imperiousness of a queen.
By this time, I’d slunk down as far as I could into the booth, trying to disappear completely. I debated on whether to just go outside and wait for her in the car.
“Melissa, what the hell is wrong with you?” I snapped when the server left.
“Sit up and straighten your tie, Martin. Look sharp.”
I reached up and realized I wasn’t wearing a tie while at the same time my head swiveled, and my gaze met with Andre’s soft brown eyes. His expression, which had looked irritated, changed to confused, and then… panicked? I took a deep breath, using the precious few seconds I had to compose myself before he arrived at our table.
He was as beautiful as ever, though perhaps a little tired around the eyes. His hair was in its trademark blue bandana. His face was smooth and expertly sculpted. I couldn’t look at his lips without imagining kissing him, or nibbling on their fleshy middle, as I’d had a habit of doing. Even the way he crossed the room, his languid lean as he stood before us. God, how I loved everything about him.
“Hey, Melissa,” Andre said, raising one hand as was his standard greeting to her.
“Hey, Andre.” She glanced over at me. “I’m going to smoke.”
I stood to embrace him, then realized he might not want that. Something about his posture, the way he angled his shoulder toward me, told me that he was maintaining a safe distance between us. It felt like a chasm to me.
“Andre.” I said his name like a prayer.
“Martin.”
There were so many things I wanted to say to him, but I started with, “How are you?”
“I’m fine.” He glanced down, not meeting my eyes. “You?”
“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” I wanted to reach for his hand, but they were jammed deep into his pockets.
He glanced behind him, toward the kitchen, jerked his thumb behind him. “I can’t really talk right now.”
“You’re the head chef.” I was proud of him. Then I worried that maybe he thought I was teasing him, which I wasn’t.
“Yeah.” His expression was unreadable. He always did have that ability to close me out when he wanted.
“Can we talk after your shift?” I felt panicky and desperate, to think this was my only chance with him and I might not get another. “I can wait for you here.”
“No,” he said abruptly. My stomach dropped. “Not here, I mean.” He glanced around anxiously, like we were being watched.
“Okay. Anywhere you want.”
“I’ll meet you at Daniela’s. Around ten?”
“Yeah, I’ll be there.”
