Change
Damian
this. Day in, day out, everyone around is eager to please me, jumping at the chance to earn my favour. Why is that an issue? Because no one challenges me. I could say I wanted to fly an inflatable gorilla across the Don Valley Parkway, and no one would bat an eye. They’d say, “yes sir,” and get out an air pump. I could suggest using Webdings as a billboard font, and someone would make it happen. It’s a remarkable feat for a twenty-seven-year-old to be at the top of his game in the advertising industry, but if this keeps up, I’m never going to be any better. I don’t want to peak at twenty-seven.
Frustration breeds tension in my head and I’m desperate to distance myself from my brown-nosing co-workers. I tell my assistant, Paxton, that I’m taking an early lunch, and not to call me unless there’s an emergency. That’s a ridiculous notion—emergencies in advertising—but according to some clients, they happen.
I walk north from my office, which is the opposite direction I go most days. Today, I want something new. I need to distance myself from this life I’ve become accustomed to but will never grow comfortable with. That’s why I left the jacket of my stupid-expensive suit behind—that, and the fact it’s so humid, it feels like I’m walking through soup.
I turn onto King Street, heading west, and a simple, cozy-looking restaurant called Harvest draws my attention. Aside from the immediate notions I have about their terrible signage and advertising material, it’s just what I need right now. Comfort food.
The hostess is a slender redhead with blazing blue eyes and freckled cheeks. She smiles as I approach her station, which isn’t unusual. But when that smile turns from friendly to predatory, it makes me uncomfortable. A lot of guys would revel in the attention, but I hate it. Sure, physical attraction is important, but I’ve dealt with my fair share of disingenuous women trying to use me as arm candy or a meal ticket. Neither of which appeal to me. I want to have an actual conversation with someone that doesn’t involve net worth or how we can be “mutually beneficial”.
“Good afternoon. Table for two?” the redhead asks with a gleam in her eye. The not-so-subtle attempt at questioning if I have a partner joining me.
“Just myself. Somewhere quiet, please,” I snap. I’m not in the mood for this today. Or any day, for that matter.
“Absolutely. Follow me.” She directs me to a section with only one other couple seated in it, and places me at a table near the window. “Angel will be your server. Take a look at your drink menu and I’ll send her right over.” If I’m not mistaken, the woman, whose nametag says “Alex”, is suppressing a smirk.
With narrowed eyes, I reply, “Thank you.”
Seconds later, another woman says, “Hello. I’m Angel, and I’ll be your server today. Can I start you off with a drink?”
I stare down at my menu, not looking up at the woman, though I’m impressed by her promptness. “Just water is fine.”
“Sparkling or flat?”
My mistake for assuming this place wasn’t pretentious. “Flat. No ice. Just water.”
“Very well. I’ll get that for you and give you a few moments to browse the menu.”
When she turns to walk away, I lift my eyes to glimpse the most incredible head of curly hair I’ve ever seen. It’s a combination of dark at the roots with blonde throughout, but not like a neglected dye job. It’s more an intentional creative decision. I’d like to say I stopped perusing her back at her hair, but I’m a red-blooded male and couldn’t pass up the opportunity. The woman is curvy and strong. Instead of browsing the menu, I keep my eyes lifted, waiting for Angel to return, because I want to see the other side of her. Perhaps I should have put more effort into not being a jerk while she was standing in front of me.
The woman returns carrying a lone glass of water on a tray, manoeuvering through the space with an elegant grace. Her facial features are gorgeous. She wears little makeup, if any, because I can’t pinpoint anything specifically. Her skin is a gorgeous light gold, telling me she spends time outdoors away from her job. She’s no more than 5’2”, but my mother always said, good things come in small packages. What appeals to me the most is that she’s not wearing a fake smile. She makes eye contact with me as she returns to set the glass on my table, but she’s not sickeningly sweet like most waitresses are.
“Here’s your water. Have you decided what you’d like to order yet?”
I spent her entire absence either looking at her from afar or wondering about her, so I’m left unprepared to order. “What would you recommend? This is my first time here.”
“It’s everyone’s first time here.” Her eyes shoot wide when she catches herself, and I notice they’re a remarkable shade of brown, like black coffee. They are captivating against her light hair. “We don’t get a lot of repeat customers.” A blush creeps up her cheeks, and I resist the urge to smile.
Cool it, Damian.
“And why is that? I can see myself coming back.” If not for the food, for the service.
Her blush deepens, and now I can’t stop the smile from spreading across my face. You can fake a smile, but it’s a lot harder to fake a blush, and there’s something about a genuine reaction from her that gets my blood pumping.
“Wait until you taste the food. As for what I’d recommend, based on the cooks in the kitchen, I’d go for something they can’t screw up.”
I tilt my head to look at her, curious about her comments. “What can’t they screw up, then? A sandwich?”
“Mmm… I wouldn’t be so sure. If you’re up for it, go with a salad.”
I glance down at the menu, taking in the options available. The salads are the cheapest things on offer, but I don’t think she’s trying to save me money, and she’s obviously not trying to make more for herself. “Okay. I’ll get the tex-mex chicken salad.”
She grimaces. “Are you sure?”
“What’s wrong with that one?” That’s the most expensive salad option, so I figured that was safe.
“Uh. Nothing is wrong with it, in theory. It’s just not a big hit… with these chefs in the kitchen.”
“Okay, well, you tell me which one I should get then, since you seem to know it all.” I flash another smile, hoping it’s clear I appreciate her input.
The sound of a throat clearing behind Angel distracts us both. An angry-looking bald man leans around her shoulder, but he’s about her height, so she closes her eyes and shudders. I assume she feels his breath on her neck.
“Is there a problem here, Miss Blake?”
Blake. Angel Blake.
“No, sir. I was just discussing lunch options with this gentleman.”
“And I hope you’re letting him choose for himself.” The man’s tone is threatening, and it makes the hair on my arms raise.
“She’s been nothing but helpful. Now if you don’t mind.” I wave him away like the pest he is, and the gesture makes me cringe at myself. I’m not this person. Waving people away is not something I do. Act natural. Own it. “I’ll have the steak salad, medium. Dressing on the side.”
Angel’s lips form a terse line as she nods and rushes off. What was that about?
The pest strides back over to my table. “I apologize if your service isn’t to your standards. I can have another server tend to you.”
I’m caught off guard by his suggestion, but so far, Angel has been the most forthcoming server I’ve had to date, and I’ve eaten at a lot of restaurants. “The service has been phenomenal. I’d say the best I’ve ever had.”
His bushy eyebrows draw together, giving him a frazzled unibrow. Why does he seem surprised? Is she normally a troublemaker? I don’t see that being the case.
The short man sets his jaw and speaks through clenched teeth, “Very well. Enjoy your meal.”
Angel spends the next fifteen minutes tending to the couple on the other side of her section and performing various tasks. She seems like a hard worker, and I’m not sure what the bald man’s issue with her is. I watch her elegant movements across the space, mesmerized by how she does simple things like wiping tables, or tucking in chairs neatly. I’ve never been so captivated by a person in my life.
When she brings me my meal, she sets it down in front of me, and it smells edible. I thank her with the brightest smile I can, which has her blushing again.
The food could taste like cardboard and I’d still come back tomorrow to see that sight.