He nods and shuts the door in my face.
What do I do now? Go back to the table, I guess, and wait. I don’t relish the idea of sitting alone, with dozens of eyes watching and wondering if Gray is ever coming back.
When I get to the front, a waitress and a waiter, who know the floor well, are discussing who should take over for Laurel. Gray prefers the term hostess, but the hostess at the club is actually the maître d’ with the de facto job of restaurant manager for the evening. With Laurel and Gray both out of commission, and Foxy gone for the day, no one’s in charge.
This was my old job. I can welcome guests and keep the floor running smoothly in my sleep. I did it for two years.
“I’ll be the hostess for the rest of the evening,” I advise the much relieved, albeit cautious, waitstaff. “Let’s all go back to our stations.”
About fifteen minutes later, Trippi approaches me outside the dining room after I’ve seated a small party. “Mr. Wilder is wondering if you know the name of the doctor who delivered Gabby Wilder’s baby?”
Laurel must be pregnant. Hopefully the fall is nothing serious. I don’t bother asking, because Trippi isn’t going to divulge a thing. “Dr. Williams. With Angel Oak Obstetrics and Gynecology.” Dr. Williams is my doctor too, but I keep that to myself.
“He also wanted me to tell you to go up to the apartment, and he’ll meet you when he can. He said to order dinner for yourself and the kitchen will bring it up.”
Did he? Well, I’m going to go into the bathroom and take out his little toy, and he’ll have to come tell me himself, with words, if that’s what he expects.
“Tell Mr. Wilder that he should take as long as he needs. I can amuse myself until he’s free.”
Trippi, who is a former SEAL and the size of a Mack truck, glances between me and the menus in my hand.
“If you tell him I’m working the floor, I’ll help myself to your balls when you least expect it. It won’t be a good time for you.”
He’s twice my size, but has the good graces not to laugh in my face. “Yes, ma’am,” he says deferentially before walking away.
I’d say there’s a less than fifty-fifty chance he’ll keep his mouth shut.
22
Delilah
I’ve changed into a pair of shorts and a tank top by the time the lock clicks, and Gray drops his keys into a small glass tray in the foyer.
“Hey,” he says from the living room doorway. “I didn’t expect you to still be up.” He’s carrying his jacket, his tie is off, and his sleeves are rolled to the elbow. He looks beat.
“Is that why you stayed away so long?” I tease. “Hoped I’d fall asleep before you got home? How’s Laurel?”
“She’s fine. I’m sorry about the way things turned out tonight.” He walks to the bar in the corner of the room and pours a bourbon. One glass.
“No thanks, I don’t care for any.”
His hand freezes mid-pour, his lips pulled into a tight line. “Do you want a drink, or are you just busting my balls?”
“I’m all set for now.” I sit up and lay my iPad on the sofa beside me, and watch while he drains his glass and pours himself another. He’s broody tonight, with a darkness surrounding him that’s not normally there. At least not one this gloomy.
“I’m going to shower.”
“I’ll put out supper while you’re showering. Don’t deep-condition your hair and shave your legs, and all that other stuff that takes time. I’m starving.”
He stops, and turns to me. “You haven’t eaten?”
“I waited for my date. It seemed ladylike and proper, like a champagne cocktail.”
When he shakes his head, I spy a whisper of a smile, but not enough to lift the gloom. “I’ll be out in ten minutes.”
While he’s showering, I reheat the crab dip and pull the chicken salad from the refrigerator. I wonder if something happened with Laurel. Maybe that’s what’s put him in a mood. It was hot as hell outside and soupy, but the club was cool and dry. I doubt it was the heat that made her go down, even if she is pregnant. It’s not as though pregnant women turn into hothouse flowers.
While I’m still figuring things out, Gray comes out onto the balcony where I’ve set out the food and lit a few candles I found decorating the inside of the fireplace. His hair is damp, and he’s wearing a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. I’d bet my last dollar there’s no underwear under those thin gray sweatpants. Just like at the beach.
“This is nice,” he says, almost surprised.
“I thought we’d eat out here. It’s cooled off and the fresh air feels good. I hope you don’t mind that I borrowed the candles from the fireplace. I’ll put them back just like they were when we’re finished.” Wouldn’t want you to have a heart attack because something was out of place.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, stretching out on a chaise lounge. “What did you order?”
I lift the lids off the platters. “Chicken salad on soft white bread, with sweet potato fries and some crab dip.”
He’s sitting back, with his eyes closed, but he’s not asleep.
I slather some crab dip on a piece of baguette and bring it to him.
“Chef Renaud must have loved filling your order.”
“He’s lucky I don’t trust him to make a decent taco, because that’s what I really had a hankering for. But not to be outmaneuvered, he chose a crisp chardonnay that would pair well with my choices.” I purse my lips. “I never cared for that guy. Too snooty for my tastes. But he can cook. Got to give him that.”
Gray gets up and opens the glass door to the living room. “I’m not a fan of chardonnay, crisp or otherwise. Do you want a beer?”
“Love one.”
The balcony overlooks the city, with the harbor in the distance. It’s a nice view, but nothing like the beach house.
I make us each a plate with some of everything while he’s inside, and take the seat closest to him.
He hands me a beer. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was. This is perfect. Thanks for—”
“Ordering? It didn’t take much effort.” I pick at my food, unsure about whether it’s okay to ask what happened with Laurel. I don’t want to violate her privacy. I suppose Gray will let me know if I overstep. “I heard you went to the hospital with Laurel.”
“Where did you hear that?” he asks, taking a bite of the sandwich.
“Chatter among the waitstaff. You know how it is in the restaurant—no secrets, even if the ambulance pulls up around back. Plus, they like her, and they were worried.”
He shrugs. “She’d never been in an ambulance before. She started to cry when the EMTs hooked her up to an IV and said she needed to go to the emergency room. She was shaking, and I couldn’t see sending her alone. Trippi followed in the car. We stayed until her husband could find someone to take care of their kid.”
Empathy and compassion—there it is again. “That was nice of you.”
“It’s not like I had a choice.”