The Fortunate Ones

I’m not satisfied. I want details, so I do what any responsible person would do: I try to Google him during my shift. I’m knee-deep in my investigation when Marissa joins me at the podium.

“What are you doing?” she asks, peering down at my phone. “Why are you looking at suits on Dolce & Gabbana’s website?”

I hold up the medium-blue suit for her to inspect. “Do you think James is wearing that right now?”

She snorts. “The dude buys custom. I hear he has a suit guy he flies in from Italy once a quarter.”

I narrow my eyes in disbelief. “Who told you that?”

“Larry, from the kitchen.”

“Oh, does ‘Larry from the kitchen’ know a lot about designer suits?”

“Maybe he moonlights at a dry cleaners? I dunno, but the suit guy thing seems plausible.”

I shrug and slide my phone back to its hiding spot. “You’re right. I guess it doesn’t really matter anyway.”

“Are you that bored?”

Yes. Out of my mind. It’s 9:00 PM, so most of the diners have long since packed in the carbs and gone home. A few stragglers remain, and of course, James’ entire group is still going strong. I’ve lost track of how many bottles of champagne they’ve managed to uncork. Let’s just say the club’s wine cellar might need to be restocked in the morning.

“Well at least we’re both off soon. Let’s go get a beer.”

I level her with a death stare. “I wish, but Garrett somehow convinced me to cover for him.”

She looks confused. “But Garrett is scheduled to close tonight…”

“Yep. Kill me now.”

My misery does not find company with Marissa. She cracks up like I’ve said something hi-larious then claps her hand on the podium and tells me I’m a poor schmuck before she walks away.

“I’ll remember that!” I call out after her.

She waves over her shoulder. “Have fun burning the midnight oil!”

I go back to Googling designer suits so I don’t fall asleep standing up. Another two groups of diners stroll out, a little obnoxious and a lot tipsy. Brian sees me twiddling my thumbs and instructs me to head back and help roll silverware for tomorrow’s lunch service. With pleasure.

I spend an hour in the employee break room, divvying up knives and forks, and in that time, I add another quote to my collection.

“Do you think James Ashwood has his suits custom made?” I ask the coworker assembling cutlery with me.

From Yvonne, a member of the kitchen staff: “I don’t care where he buys ’em as long as I know where the zipper is.”

Alrighty then.

I finish up the rest of my closing duties and then head to check on Brian. Last time I saw him, he was on his way to confirm that James’ group had everything they needed, but that was at least an hour ago. I’ve been chatting with the kitchen staff long enough that the dining room should be empty. PLEASE GOD, LET IT BE EMPTY. I want to go home and sleep before I have to wake up and do this all over again.

The club’s chandeliers are set to dim continuously during dinnertime so that guests arriving at 5:30 PM are illuminated much more than those rolling in around 8:00. Now, as I leave the kitchen, the room is the darkest I’ve ever seen it. All the tea candles have been extinguished, and the hallway light that usually illuminates the hostess podium is off. Brian must have finished my closing duties for me, which means I’m that much closer to freedom.

I step into the dining room, prepared to make a beeline for the podium, grab my phone and purse, and get the hell out of this place before anyone can assign me last-minute duties. A quick glance toward the fireplace confirms that James’ group is gone, and the servers assigned to his table made quick work of the aftermath. It’s almost like he was never there at all, except I have the open Google search on my phone to prove he was.

I make it another few steps before the sound of a glass being put down on the bar catches my attention. I whip my gaze across the space and there he sits.

Alone at the bar.CHAPTER FOURHis rich brown hair glows beneath the dim, warm light, and his elbows are resting on the bar as his thumb brushes back and forth across the brim of a whiskey glass. I stand frozen as he pauses and takes a slow sip.

I don’t think he knows I’m here. I glance back to the kitchen door and then across to the podium. I’m not supposed to leave until the last member is gone, I get that, but being here right now feels like an invasion of his privacy. Where is Brian when I need him? Surely the bartenders didn’t leave James Ashwood to fend for himself? Dear god, did he have to pour his own drink? Brian will never let us hear the end of it. There will be 50 all-hands-on-deck meetings, maybe more.