I’m half-tempted to ignore his text, simply to avoid the pity.
TARA: I think I’m being stood up. Going to leave soon probably. Do we have chips at home? I’m gonna need them.
TARA: GIF of Sad Pablo Escobar all by his lonesome on ugly patio swing
At the half-hour mark, I shoot Daniel a DM, letting him know I’m waiting at the restaurant. He has yet to respond.
At the front of the room, Rogan whispers to the hostess, who has vacant eyes and fuchsia lipstick on her teeth. They simultaneously cast grim expressions toward me. If I had to guess, they’re stressing about the lack of table space. I can’t say I blame them. Mamma Maria’s is a full house tonight. The lineup is out the door, spilling down the brown, slushy sidewalk. I’m the annoying customer needlessly wasting a table, throwing everything off.
I hold my breath as the hostess sashays over. “Do you know if the other member of your party will be here soon?” she asks, brandishing a frighteningly fake lopsided smile. Her name tag is only half-visible behind her blond curls, allowing me to make out the first few letters (Mer). “We have another reservation in half an hour.”
“He’ll be here. In ten minutes,” I say reassuringly, though more to myself.
She gives me a pitiful expression and sighs dramatically, like she’s doing me a massive favor. “Ten more minutes,” she warns, like a weary parent granting their child extra playtime at the park.
I picture an ancient, hand-carved hourglass emptying with just two measly grains of sand stubbornly holding on. At the nine-minute mark, Rogan strides forth to officially kick me out. He clears his throat, cruelly forcing me to look him in the eyes while he does so. “Ma’am, I apologize, but I’m going to have to ask you to—”
“Hey, I’m so sorry, babe. I got held up in a meeting,” a booming voice sounds over his shoulder.
It’s not Daniel.
It’s Trevor.
His eyes are warm, almost amber-colored from the glow of the candlelight. And he’s dressed in a suit, no less, casually taking a good decade off my life-span.
A good suit can elevate any man at least two notches. Some men are just born to wear suits, like the Christian Grey or Chuck Bass types, the ones who command respect when their suave selves stride into a boardroom, their brows raised inquisitively. They smell like mahogany, radiating status and sex appeal with a dash of sociopathic tendencies. The mere fastening of a cuff link is enough to make the postmenopausal secretary shift in her chair. On rare occasions, they may be spotted in the wild in casual wear, and it’s jarring, like seeing your first-grade teacher next to you in the condom and lube aisle of the local pharmacy.
Then there are men like Trevor Metcalfe. The rugged, emotionally damaged types who would rather wear literally anything else, preferably their ripped, distressed jeans and leather jacket that smells like danger. But in exceptional circumstances when they wear a suit, it’s game over for humanity. Personally, I’m offended I’ve been deprived of such a magnificent sight until now.
A dark-charcoal jacket spans Trevor’s broad shoulders like a glove, the fabric straining a little over his physique, accentuating his tapered waist. His wavy hair looks like shaved dark chocolate, slightly damp, fresh from a steamy shower straight out of my dreams.
Rogan frowns as Trevor settles into the seat across from mine, relaxed and self-assured.
I bumble out some garbled nonsense, unable to speak English through my shock.
Trevor gives me an easy wink over the menu that makes my heart dolphin-flip. In return, I flash him a half-terrified, half-thankful smile while stuffing a quarter of a breadstick in my mouth.
“What can I get for you tonight?” Rogan asks, callously reaching to swipe the bread basket.
To his shock and horror, Trevor snatches it with superhuman speed, setting it back on the table where it belongs. “Sorry, sir. We aren’t done with the bread. And I’m good with whatever you have on tap, please.”
He certainly did not request to keep the bread for himself. One does not simply get a hard body like that by mindlessly shoveling empty carbs down their throat. He saved that basket of bread for me, knowing damn well I’ll go down in a blaze of wheaty glory in the name of carbs. Maybe I’ve been wrong about Trevor’s romantic lead potential all along, because that was some real hero shit.
Rogan shoots eye lasers at the bread basket, mentally turning it to a pile of ashy crumbs. “And to eat?”
“I’ll take the twelve-ounce steak, medium rare, veggies on the side.” Trevor pauses, regarding me. “I assume you want my baked potato?”
“Um, hell to the yes. Twice baked, please. If you’re not having it, I mean,” I add.
Trevor smiles and folds up his menu. “What are you having, sweetheart?” For the second time tonight, a term of endearment rolls off his tongue so naturally, I’d assume we really were a real-life married couple with plans for a bright future with two kids, a yellow Lab, and maybe a beta fish I’ll inevitably forget to feed.
Oh dear. I’m in too deep. I require a bright-orange life raft and a couple of flares, stat.
I snap my focus back to Rogan, who’s bouncing on his toes, probably itching to report back to his colleagues. “Uh, I’ll take the fettuccini alfredo?”
“She’ll take a glass of merlot too, please.” Trevor gently collects my menu and hands it to Rogan. When he runs off to his minions, Trevor gives me a dazzling, mischievous grin over the glass candelabra, which is too large for a two-person table. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you? Pasta is the worst date food.”
I hold his stare. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you? I don’t play by bullshit rules.”
He chuckles. “That’s my girl. You look great tonight, by the way. That dress is just . . .” He waves a hand at my tight blue dress with a plunging neckline.
I didn’t realize the extent of Trevor’s acting abilities. He deserves an award for pretending to be a supportive, sweet boyfriend. I shoulder check, expecting one of the waitstaff to be standing behind me, observing his performance. There is no one there. “Can I ask what the heck you’re doing here?”
Trevor shrugs, like giving up his night and busting out fancy attire from the depths of his closet didn’t put him out in the slightest. “You told me you can’t stand the thought of eating alone, right? That depressing story about the guy at your grandparents’ restaurant. But I figured you’d need some moral support. I wanted to be here for you. Just in case. I know I’m no Dwight K. Schrute, but . . .”
A flame lights up my insides, filling me with a liquid warmth so comforting, I don’t know what to do with my body. In fact, I don’t realize I’m smiling until the moisture threatens to pool over my lash line. This is the single most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me.
“Hey, you okay?” Trevor asks, reading my expression. He even nudges the bread basket toward me. Why must he be so damn thoughtful?
I suck in a deep breath, willing back the floodgates as the blur of Rogan brings our drinks. “Yeah. I really am. Thank you for coming. I’m sure you had better things to do with your night.”
“Like what?”
I give him a knowing look while shamelessly dipping a breadstick in the tiny tray of whipped butter. That is definitely not something I’d be doing in front of Daniel. “Like having some hot sex with an Insta model?”
He smirks. “I’m eating an expensive meal with an Insta model. That’s gotta count for something.”
I make a pft sound at his flattery, swirling my wine. “I’m no Insta model. I don’t photograph well, remember?”
“Right. The Satan eyes,” he says through a snort. “You really missed your opportunity. When your meme went viral in high school, you shoulda trademarked that shit. Started a Crazy Ex-Girlfriend mass following or something.”
I drum my fingers together. “You make an excellent point. I could have been a charismatic cult leader of all crazy girls everywhere.”
As Trevor and I contemplate all the ways I could have monetized that meme and reclaimed the term, our food arrives. To the waitstaff’s horror, Trevor and I eat slowly, not out of spite, but because we can’t stop talking about random things, like what we’d do in the event of an apocalypse (him: head for fresh water; me: curl up in a ball and succumb to inevitable death) or what we’d choose to eat for our last meal on death row (him: this steak; me: a bag of Cheetos).
A couple emitting some serious first-date vibes is seated at the table next to us as I devour my pasta before it gets cold. “This is exactly why I refuse to date online,” I whisper as the man awkwardly remarks that the woman looks totally different in person than in her profile photo.