"You know, I've been thinking," Barbie said as she heaved herself up the small hill to stand next to me.
"Oh, yes, Barbie suggested a garden path. Something nice and even," I said.
Both men smiled and nodded, but all I saw was Rainer's fierce eyebrows. Even as he smiled, they were drawing tighter together. Our conversation was clearly not over, but I had no idea why he was so set on convincing me Ellison wasn't his girlfriend. Why would that matter to me?
"No, actually, I was thinking you should try that great little hotel in Tasha's town. You know, when you go on your date. Do a pregnant mama a favor and try one of those Cuban sidecar cocktails," Barbie said.
So, that's what jealous looks like, I thought as Rainer's frown deepened. He suddenly noticed a text message and got out of the garden plot as if the hillside was on fire. The only problem was, I watched him go before remembering Seth was still there and smiling at me.
Chapter Twelve
Rainer
Skipping the line never gets old. I got out of my new car at the valet stand and was directed straight up the stairs. A whole herd of people pushed against the velvet ropes, and I saw a few flashbulbs fire off. I was at the front door of the best new restaurant in San Francisco, and it was opening night.
My smile was camera ready, and I shook hands with half a dozen people in the foyer. Champagne appeared beside me in seconds, and I was assured my table would be ready momentarily. The whole restaurant was a hum of anxious staff and excited patrons, the newly rich and the eager to be seen.
All I could think about was Tasha.
I downed my champagne and balanced the empty flute on a passing tray. Then I pulled out my phone and sent Tasha a message, just seeing if she got her invitation to the restaurant opening.
"Expecting someone?" Berger asked. He sidled up next to me in the crowd and tipped back a fresh glass of champagne.
"Just checking to see who else from the office is taking advantage of our invites," I said.
Berger smirked. "Sure. I'm betting on everyone but Ms. Nichols. How about you?"
"She might surprise you," I said.
"No, man, you're the only one who's surprising me. We have to talk more about this whole digging in the dirt thing you have going on with Tasha." Berger was serious and seemed to have me cornered.
I didn't want to do it, but I waved across the room. Anyone was better than Berger and his office gossip. "I see my brother. Better go say hello. You know how it is." I slapped Berger on the shoulder and slipped through the tight crowd to my brother's small table.
Evan gave me a sour smile as yet another excited customer jostled past. He clapped a hand over his teetering wine glass. "Trying to jump in at the last minute? Not so sure your charm can get you a table tonight. We had to make reservations months ago."
I gave my sister-in-law a peck on the cheek and noticed her pursed lips. Here they were at the trendiest restaurant, but it wasn't enough. She wanted a better table and clearly blamed my brother. "Father mentioned you were having quite an upswing lately," she said to annoy her husband.
M
y brother scowled. "Yes, we're all curious how long you'll manage to keep this up."
I caught another flute of champagne off a passing tray. The server paused to let me know my table was ready. Near the front windows, in a spacious spread of large, round tables, a white-gloved waiter beckoned me. "Gotta run; I'm famished. Good to see you. Say hello to Father."
I could feel Evan's eyes boring a hole in my back as I walked away. My sister-in-law was already complaining about my prime table position when her whining was cut off.
"There you are, darling." Ellison appeared out of nowhere and gave me a graceful kiss on the cheek. The normal wave of attention that followed her broke on a soft sigh. I could already hear all the tabloid speculation buzzing out over social media. "I know you've got a wonderful table, but how about you join me at mine?"
"And where's that?" I asked, suspicious.
Ellison just laughed and looped an arm through mine. "The chef's table, silly."
Within minutes, we had met the cream of the kitchen staff and greeted the genius chef himself. I was starving but posed for a series of photographs with half a dozen people I didn't know, and always with Ellison hanging on my arm. Then the chef showed us our seats, more of a raised dais on the edge of the open kitchen, with the entire jealous restaurant behind us. I was glad when the food began to appear and I didn't have to think about all the speculative eyes looking in our direction.
The chef was weaving a story with tantalizing appetizers as details when I finally got a message back from Tasha. She'd sent me a picture of a fresh torta from the taco truck in her little neighborhood. It was balanced precariously on a stack of work folders on her dining room table. I could see the lights of the bay from her window in the background, and felt the distance across the dark water between us.
I sent back a snapshot of the tiny, frothy dollop that was my next course and told her how jealous I was of her dinner. I would have given up my seat at the chef's table in an instant if I was offered a place on the couch next to her.
At least I recognize the garnish, I wrote.