I’m thirty-one, missy. Ancient to you, but I can work a phone, a power drill, and a twenty-speed vibrator. Not all at once though. “I’m familiar with the concept of QR codes. Also, phones,” I say.
“Cool,” she says blandly, then walks away, her tunic swishing against her leggings.
Once I sit, I rub my palms on my jeans, a tiny bit nervous. What if I’m seated with an over-sharer? An endless talker? A dullsville candidate?
But I’m excited too.
What if my companion is an enigmatic billionaire like in a romance novel? A broody rock musician? A hot tech nerd who’s looking for a matchmaker?
Gah. The meet cute possibilities are endless, and when I write this as the opening of my next book, it’s going to be epic.
I just know it.
I open an app on my phone to write down some notes about the vibe, when a man’s voice carries across the space. “Four minutes and forty-five seconds.”
Say it isn’t so.
I know that voice too well. That gravelly, know-it-all voice.
I can’t believe he’s here tonight.
Hanging on a dwindling hope I heard wrong, I turn my gaze to the front, praying that’s not my arch nemesis. Maybe he has a vocal twin. Maybe that’s a thing now.
But my prayers are unanswered. Standing tall at the hostess desk is the smart-mouthed, glasses-wearing, smirky-faced romantic thriller writer, Axel Huxley.
Wearing black, because of course he wears black.
And of course he’s arguing with the hostess, because he never met a statement he couldn’t debate, dissect and slice into a million, julienned pieces, then pepper with disagreement.
He blah blah blahs a little more, finishing with, “So, you have to seat me. It’s within the bylaws of the restaurant.”
I snort. Get over yourself, Huxley. I hope they kick you out.
I feel sorry for whatever sucker is getting seated with King Dick tonight.
I return to my phone, tapping out a note about how funny it would be if the heroine ran into her enemy before the clever, charming, eventual hottie hero enters the scene.
Then I check the menu options while waiting for my brilliant professor, my inscrutable tycoon, my good guy with a heart of gold in need of a makeover.
Until the sound of footsteps grows louder, and closer. I look up.
At a face I want to punch.