An elf… She looks like San Francisco’s version of an elf, with a body as big and curvy as the city itself.
And for some reason, she has a portrait of someone who looks like an unsophisticated version of Eloa in her hand.
My brow lowers, wondering if, despite my significant investment, Daniel had for some stupid reason contracted one of those cheesy third-party caricature portrait artists to start selling drawings at his exclusive venue.
But then, instead of aiming a hard sell at me, she says to Eloa, “Hi, I’m sorry for interrupting your date, but I have to tell you something…”
“Is that Luiza?” Eloa asks. “My sister?”
“Yeah, I think so,” the San Francisco elf answers. “Can we talk? Maybe over there?”
Without so much as an “Excuse me” or a thought to the substantial amount I’m paying her for tonight, Eloa goes off with the San Francisco elf.
And instead of being entertained by Eloa’s witty remarks, I watch the two of them talk near the restaurant’s front door as I wait for the second course.
The curvy woman hands Eloa the sketch and seems to be explaining something to her. Eloa shakes her head and crosses herself as the woman speaks. I can’t begin to guess what the San Francisco elf might be saying to her. But when she’s done, my sophisticated date reaches out and hugs her tight…before rushing out the shoji-style door.
Eloa leaves. Just leaves. As if I’m not paying her to have dinner and then more with me later on. As if I’m not even here.
What in the… Is she coming back?
The San Francisco elf doesn’t seem to think so. Ducking her head, she makes her way back to her table on the other side of the restaurant. And though I stare at her, she keeps her head lowered as she picks up her chopsticks and awkwardly begins to eat her first course.
I wait for her to look up. But just like my date never returned to our table, the adorable elf studiously avoids my questioning gaze.
I am a man used to being acknowledged. Women have looked at me all my life. Many have stared, though that’s considered quite rude in Japan. Yet, this woman refuses to spare me even so much as an apologetic glance.
Something stirs in me as I once again recall listening to “Time to Pretend” for the first time. Suddenly I remember how it felt to hear a song that felt utterly new…how I wanted to download it before it was even halfway through.
It’s the same way I’m feeling now, staring across the restaurant at the San Francisco elf.
I have two choices. I could follow Eloa out and try to figure out why she left without any explanation, or….
I stand up, my heart beating faster than it has in a very long time as I decide on the “or” option.
3
Why, Santa, Why?
KRISTAL
“You ended my date.”
I cringe, even though I suspected this confrontation might happen the moment Eloa ran out of the restaurant. I wish I could say this is the first time such a thing has happened, but it totally isn’t. Hearing someone you love is about to die puts things in hyper perspective for most folks. You’d be surprised how many people just bounce when I tell them. Especially when they’re on dates with people they’re not in love with, which I guess Eloa wasn’t, no matter how perfect they looked together.
So no, this isn’t the first time I’ve been left to deal with the messy aftermath of a date cut short. And it’s not the first time I’ve been confronted by a woman or man wanting to know what the hell is going on.
But this is the first time I’ve ever been confronted by a total Adonis. I mean, he is so hot. So hot. My entire body burns under his direct gaze, and I’m afraid it might be more than my nerdy elf heart can handle if I dare to look up.
Why is this happening to me? Why, Santa, why?
“Yeah, I guess I did,” I mumble, keeping my eyes glued to my plate, even though the first course is way past gone. “Sorry about that.”
“Sorry about that?” he repeats. “You’ve ended my date at the beginning of a seven-course meal, and all you have to say is ‘sorry about that.’”
His accent is, like him, insanely gorgeous. Not quite East Asian, not quite British, but balancing on a smooth in-between, like it could go either way.
“Really, really sorry about that?” I edit, still not looking up.
Usually, I offer to pay for the abandoned dinners so that the person left behind at least feels like they got a free meal out of their raw deal. But c’mon, this is one of the most expensive restaurants in the city. Plus, it’s the eleventh day of Christmas. With less than twenty-four hours to go until the twelve days of Christmas are over, I’ve got hmm…maybe enough to leave a tiny tip for my waiter. Maybe.