Page 3 of The Waiter at Table 6

His nod seems relieved. “I’m happy to hear that.” He hesitates, his voice deepening when he says, “You deserve only the best service.”

The ocean air doesn’t feel as cool anymore. Suddenly, the summer heat feels stifling. I finally let myself admit… yeah, he’s flirting with me.

And God, it feels really damn good.

Ryder doesn’t shy from that heat. Instead, he holds my gaze as he pulls a dessert menu from his apron and places it in front of me. “Should I give you a few minutes to decide what you’d like?”

I don’t need a few minutes.

But despite the palpable tension between us, I think a part of me is still amazed that a guy this hot is flirting with me. So I respond to the question, not the undercurrent.

Glancing down at the menu, I spot exactly what I’m looking for. “I’ll have the tiramisu. Please.”

“A woman who knows what she wants,” he comments, seemingly without thinking. When he realizes what he just said, his cheeks take on the slightest tinge of pink. I have to tamp down on my smile at the sight of it—I’m glad I’m not the only one capable of getting flustered tonight. “I’ll get that right out for you,” he says quickly.

“Take your time, there’s no rush,” I tell him. And I don’t know what causes me to say it—if it’s the wine, or simply the attention—but as I let my gaze linger on Ryder, I add, “I’m enjoying the view.”

There’s a flash of surprise on his face, quickly replaced by a pleased grin. He only holds on to the professional waiter appearance for another second before saying in a low voice, “Trust me, the enjoyable view is mine.” Then he takes my finished plate from in front of me with a wink. “I’ll be right back with your dessert.”

I don’t hide my glances at Ryder this time. As he flits around the restaurant, taking orders and delivering food, I don’t feel guilty admiring his charming smile, or the way his muscles fill out his white button-up shirt. I let myself look. Because I’m single, and I’m suddenly reminded how fun it is to flirt with a good-looking man.

Besides, it’s not like anything will come of it. We haven’t said anything inappropriate, and after I leave here, we’ll never see each other again. It’s harmless.

And when I watch Ryder’s smile go from polite to excited as he nears my table, I know I’m not the only one enjoying the flirtation.

“Your tiramisu,” he says, sliding the plate in front of me.

“Thank you,” I say with a smile of my own. Then, in a teasing voice, I ask, “Are you going to wait to make sure the dessert is satisfactory, too?”

I have no idea why the question makes his playful expression freeze. When his throat bobs on a swallow, I quirk an eyebrow expectantly.

“I know exactly how good that tiramisu is and, honestly…I don’t think I could handle listening to you react to it,” he admits in a pained voice.

A laugh bursts out of me, the sound startling both of us. But it’s enough to make a boyish half-grin appear on his handsome face.

But only until I grab the fork and take a bite of the cake.

“Oh my God,” I moan, bringing my hand up to cover my mouth. I look up at Ryder with a guilty expression. “You’re right, that’s incredible.”

“Well, at least I was right,” he says, his voice just as stiff as his posture. He clears his throat and asks, “Is there anything else I can get for you?”

I swallow the last of my bite and shake my head. “No, thank you. I’m perfect.”

I can’t read Ryder’s stare. After a moment, he nods and walks away.

I’m in heaven as I enjoy my dessert. I’ve always had a sweet tooth, but once my metabolism slowed down and it wasn’t as easy to keep the sugar from going to my midsection, I rarely indulged. But now that I’m not living with someone who’s constantly commenting on my figure, it’s easier to give in to the craving.

And I realize…I’m glad I got stood up. I’m glad I don’t have to stare at a middle-aged man across the table from me and try to act interested in where he grew up and how he likes being a software developer. I’m glad I don’t have to second-guess my food order.

I can do whatever I want.

A lightness fills my chest. The divorce only finalized two months ago—after our marriage ended eight months ago—and the adjustment has been a challenge. Not because I’m heartbroken, but because I realized I have no idea who I am anymore.

In the eight years that I was married, my ex-husband—and marriage in general—had chipped away at my identity. For the longest time, I didn’t even realize what was happening. But once we separated, and I was on my own for the first time in a decade, it hit me just how much of myself I had lost. So when I have these moments when it feels like a cog falls into place, I feel so…relieved.

I finish every bite of the tiramisu. I’m full, and happy, and proud of myself when I finally drop my napkin on the table.

“I’m happy to see you had enough room for dessert,” comes Ryder’s pleased voice over my shoulder. When I look up at him, he’s smiling, that teasing twinkle back in his eye. “Are you satisfied?”

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