Chapter 11: Fluffernutter
Two months ago...
Allie
I opened the door to the ladies' room and stepped inside, so irritated that I was ready to scream. This date was awful. Actually, that was an understatement. It was a disaster of Titanic proportions. And like the movie, if I were Rose, Doyle was Jack and this date was the door I was floating on, I wouldn't have made room for Jack either.
It had started out so promising. I'd met Doyle a week ago. He was the manager for a band who had started using the same studios as Storm Front. My guys were wrapping up rehearsals for their new album and would start recording soon. His band was just finishing up their first album. He was good looking, fit, charming and very interested in me. We had talked for quite a while and had a lot in common - both single parents, both loved to travel, and had the same interests in music, obviously.
Before I left for the day, Doyle had asked me to dinner. I'd agreed, pleased to be sticking to my plan to open myself to love, and get over my infatuation with all things Nico. I'd had a few - four to be exact - dates over the last few months. All perfectly nice men, with whom I'd had a perfectly nice time, who hadeach given me a perfectly nice kiss at the end of the evening. It was...nice.
I didn't want nice. I wanted sparks. I wanted pulse-racing, heart-pounding anticipation. I wanted kisses that would brand my soul and touches I would feel for days. I wanted to get laid, damn it. And I still wanted it to be with Nico. Double damn it. So, when I'd felt a slight spark of interest with Doyle, I had accepted his invitation to dinner.
Now, though, I found myself pacing in the ladies' room, trying to talk myself out marching back out there and dumping my glass of wine over his head. The date had been going really well, for the first ten minutes at least. We had met at the restaurant - a nice steakhouse not far from the studio - and were seated immediately at our reserved table. We'd exchanged small talk while we'd looked over our menus. Cue the arrival of the server, somewhere around minute eleven.
"I'll have a whiskey, neat, and a glass of your finest red for the lady," Doyle had said without even glancing her way. He also had not asked me what I wanted to drink. The red wine was fine, in fact it was probably what I would have ordered, but I would have liked to have been asked.
"Very well, sir. Would you care for any starters? We have a lovely - "
"The crab stuffed mushrooms will be fine," he'd interrupted without so much as a please or thank you to our server, or even asking me if that was what I wanted. Newsflash, I wasn't a huge fan of crab, and mushrooms tasted like dirt to me. I had flashed her a quick smile of apology before she walked away.
The server brought our drinks out quickly, along with a cutting board containing a variety of the artisanal breads the restaurant was known for. "Do you have any questions about our menu or are you ready to place your orders?" she'd asked me, smiling politely. I had absently noticed Doyle sliding the bread board off to the side of the table, just out of my reach, and hoped he didn't accidentally knock it onto the floor. I just loved their roasted garlic and rosemary focaccia.
"I'll take the ribeye, medium, with a baked potato - extra sour cream - and a side of broccoli, please," I'd said, making sure to offer her a friendly smile to make up for Doyle's lack of one.
"A potato with extra sour cream...are you sure? I mean, carbs aren't exactly the healthiest choice for you, and sour cream has a lot of calories." Doyle had stated patronizingly.
The server's eyes had widened at me, as she'd slowly panned to look at him.
"Yes, I'm sure," I had said with a light laugh, trying not to grit my teeth. I had given him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was one of those uber-conscious health nuts, and simply hadn't chosen his words wisely. Surely, he wasn't actually a sanctimonious asshat who'd meant to imply that I specifically shouldn't eat carbs or extra calories, but just that people in general should limit them. Still rather rude, but at least not outright insulting.
My attempt at being understanding had lasted just long enough for him to place his order, including said baked potato - topped with sour cream, shredded cheddar, and crumbled bacon. Before heading back to the kitchen, the server had paused to look at me for a moment, head tilted, one eyebrow cocked in a look that just screamed'is he fucking serious with that shit?'
Doyle then sealed his fate when he'd reached for the largest slab of bread on the board, slathered it with their yummy, whipped butter, and stuffed a chunk in his mouth, scooting the bread board even farther from me in the process. As he chewed, I'd excused myself to the restroom that I was currently pacing.
I allowed myself a few more minutes to mentally rant, then exited the restroom with my head held high, and my vanity in tatters.
I strode to a stop next to the table, informed Doyle that I'd received a call that my daughter needed me and left him sputtering on his fucking breadcrumbs as I started to walk away. As a thought hit me, I stopped, turned, and reached for the bread board, snatching a big piece of the focaccia I'd been looking forward to. As I stalked toward the exit, bread in hand, I passed our server. "Bravo, beautiful, good for you" she murmured with a wink.
Since I had assumed I would have a glass or two of wine with dinner, I had taken an Uber to the restaurant. Outside on the sidewalk, I pulled up the app on my phone to order a car to take me home. Luckily, an available driver was only a couple minutes away, so I didn't have long to wait.
When I arrived back home, Hannah and her husband Dean, who were babysitting for me, were surprised to see me so early.
As Dean caught sight of me coming through the front door, he did a double take, looking at me with concern.
"What are you doing back so soon? Everything OK?"
The angry tears that had been just under the surface since I left the restaurant, now filled my eyes, and I blinked rapidly.
"Oh, shit," he muttered, moving toward me to give me a hug. "Hannah?" he called over his shoulder, "honey, uh, I need you in here please."
"Why, what's wron - " she stopped speaking as she rounded the corner from the kitchen and caught sight of me. "Oh God, Allie, are you OK. Are you hurt? Did he hurt you?" she asked, voice rising shrilly. She was clearly ready to kick someone's ass on my behalf.
I gave Dean a grateful squeeze and stepped back out of his arms. "No, nothing like that. I'm fine, just pissed off, and embarrassed and apparently in need of a low-carb, low fat diet. Oh, and better taste in men. I definitely need better taste in men."
"What did that goddamned motherfucker do?" Dean demanded, apparently ready to take over the ass kicking duties from my sister. They had married last year, and he took his new official role as my brother quite seriously.
"Shh...language! Gracie will hear you," Hannah reprimanded.
