Page 11 of The Waiter at Table 6

She releases a thoughtful hum, staring straight ahead. “I don’t know. I’ve never done any.”

Now I’m the one who’s surprised when I turn to look at her. “Are you serious? Never?”

Shaking her head, she shrugs. “Nothing beyond sitting on a boat with a cocktail.”

“All due respect, I refuse to call that a sport.”

The joke lands right where I wanted it to, and she rewards me with more sweet laughter.

“You should definitely try jet skiing, at the very least,” I tell her.

“Okay, fine,” she concedes. “I’ll consider jet skis. But I reject the parasailing idea.”

“That’s fair,” I say with a chuckle. “What’s in the non-reject pile?”

“Well, now I’ve added mini golf, sunrise yoga, and movies on the beach.”

I huff out a laugh. “That sounds like the ultimate to do list. Is your work remote, then?”

Immediately, every muscle in her body tenses.

Fuck. Me and my big mouth. I couldn’t have iced this conversation any more if I tried.

“Sorry, that was probably intrusive,” I mumble. “Don’t answer that.”

“No, it’s fine,” she says, although it’s clearly not. But then she exhales a heavy sigh and her shoulders sag. “How ridiculous is my life that a question about my job can stunt the conversation.”

“That was definitely not my intention,” I rush to say. “I just wanted to know more about you. We can talk about whatever you want to talk about.”

“I think… I think I want to talk about it,” she says after a few seconds. Her glance toward me is unsure. “If I’m not completely ruining the mood.”

At this point, I’m not even sure that’s possible.

“I’ll listen to anything you want to talk about,” I assure her. Then, to hopefully put her even more at ease, I add, “As your waiter slash therapist, I insist.”

And thank God, it works. A smile reappears on her face and some of the tension leaves her shoulders.

“I’ll remind you later that you asked for this,” she says with a playful hip check.

It only makes me grin.

She takes a big breath. “So basically, I haven’t had a job in nine years.”

I blink at that. “Okay…”

“After we got married, my ex started insisting that I didn’t need to work. God knows he made enough money, so from a financial aspect, he was right. And I was young and still trying to figure out my career, so it’s not like I was attached to my job and dying to keep working. So I just…quit. And never went back.”

I hum thoughtfully. “What was your job when you got married?”

“I was a secretary. That’s how I met my ex-husband: he was my boss.”

“Well, there’s your first red flag. That only works in romance novels.”

She huffs a surprised laugh. “Tell that to his new girlfriend.” When my brow furrows in confusion, she explains, “She’s his secretary. And the woman I caught him fucking.”

“Christ,” I murmur. “What a dickbag.”

She looks like she might want to defend him, but then she sighs and says, “Yeah, kinda. But I never blamed him for the career decision. He just grew up with a very distinct vision of men and women and what marriage should be like. He really thought he was taking care of me by insisting that I didn’t need to work.”

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