I did not. It’s a miracle I even ate that much, honestly, considering we worked until noon covering the Saturday morning rush, then I had only two hours to finish an essay for school before I had to be ready for Amelia to pick me up to head to Enchanted Bridal. I think I maybe had a handful of blueberries mid-shift—when I snuck into the freezer to bemoan the loss of Sol, who customersstillask about, even though he’s been gone formonthsand I don’t even work at the same Sweet & Salty location anymore as the one that he worked at.
Brothers, they haunt you, apparently.
“I had blueberries today, too,” I inform Roman. “Why are you policing my eating, anyway?”
“Food is care,” he recites. “Food is safety. Food is the fundamentals of our society, how it works, what it needs, how we survive. I’m notpolicingyour anything. I’m doing the very bare minimum of making sure that you’re cared for and healthy, as you should be.”
As I don’t do myself, he means. Sanctimoniousjerk.
“I think I know how hungry I am or am not,” I snip, flicking my menu shut. “I can, as ever, take care of myself.”
He stares at me for longer than is comfortable, wheels turning behind his soft blue eyes, then he shrugs, returning to his perusal of the food offerings. “Fine,” he says. “Be that way.”
“I will,” I return.
“Great,” he mutters.
“Great!” I chirp.
Table chatter lowers as our server appears, balancing anornate silver drink tray on his hand, smiling as if it does not weigh four thousand pounds. He doesn’t fool me, though. I’ve carried a mere four drinks on a tray before and felt like my arm was going to fall off. Eight? It’s a miracle he’s still here to serve us our drinks and not in the hospital having his arm sewn back on.
“Stop ogling the waiter’s arms,” Roman whispers. “It’s rude.”
“You’re rude,” I retort, averting my gaze from his arms, which I wasnotogling, thank you very much. I was appreciating his ability to do his job.
He grunts at me before pulling out a gracious nod for the waiter, who’s made his way to our side of the table and is creating a serious forced proximity situation between me and his biceps—which I appreciate on aprofessionallevel, because I’m not a senseless animal—as he sets our drinks beside our plates.
“Can I get you guys some appetizers?” he asks once his tray is cleared. He scans the table. “Perhaps the seared scallops?”
“We’ll have eight orders of your vegan strawberry cake,” Liam replies, tone brooking no comment on our dessert-before-dinner request. “And, after, I’ll have the butternut squash with kale risotto.”
Our arm-rich server nods, going around the table and taking our entrée orders without the use of a pen or paper. Presumably, he will store the information in his triceps, right next to his other useful work talents.
When he gets to Roman, I listen in awe as he goes against the very same teachings I know his parents gave to him, just as mine taught me, ordering, “The lamb rack Provencçal, please, with the black truffle mashed potatoes and roasted baby carrots, and an added side of pommes Anna.” His eyes flick to me, then away. “Plus the sautéed mushrooms.”
Probably this man has lost his absolute mind.
I mean, I know he likes food. Obviously he likes food. It’s,like, his entire life.But still.
As the waiter wanders to the kitchen, I lean into my seat neighbor, hissing, “Are you insane?”
He, insanely, shrugs, taking a sip of his water. “Might be. Who’s to say?”
Me. I’m to say. He’s insane!
“Relax, Sweet,” he mumbles. “Don’t worry about it.”
If we were not in the fanciest place I’ve been in, ever, surrounded by people who are mostly strangers to me, I would take the cloth napkin from around the silverware in front of him, wrap it around his stupid, insane neck, and I wouldstranglehim.
As it is, I huff, turn to face the table at large, and commence pretending he does not exist. Something that becomes immediately impossible when he rests his arm along the back of my chair, trapping my hair between it and the chair top it’s tumbled over.
“I can’t move my head,” I inform him, flicking at his arm. “Move this.”
“I’m comfortable,” he says. “Here, compromise.”
Compromise, it turns out, is him removing his arm just to slide itundermy hair to rest on the seat back, with my curls waterfalling over the back of the chair completely.
“Do you know what the definition of compromise is?” I ask, poking his hand in an attempt to tip it off my chair. It, sadly, does not move.
