Page 22 of A Smooth Operator

"He's been held up with some work, but he'll be here shortly."

I sat down, feeling gauche. It was hard enough to be here but more difficult to be alone. This wasn't feeling like a date at all.

Walter did the sparkling or still water routine. I went for still. He asked me if I'd like an apéritif or a cocktail. I asked for a Laphroaig 10 on the rocks. I wasn't driving; I might as well take advantage of that. I didn't like to drink on a Sunday night, what with my first meeting on Monday starting at seven in the morning—but I was nervous. Uneasy. The feeling only grew when I continued to wait alone in the beautiful private dining area for Remi.

He was twenty minutes late. Twenty minutes. I should've left. This was insulting. Me, my scotch, and my bread basket, just sitting there in our lonesomeness.

"Gosh, Poo…Echo, I'm so sorry." Remi sat across from me.

No hug. No kiss. No handshake. And the icing on the cake, he was going to call me Poopy Pants. Great!

He wasn't dressed up. All the people I'd seen as I walked through the restaurant had been, but Remi was in a pair of jeans, an AC/DC T-shirt, and sneakers. I felt overdressed and embarrassed to have gone to all this effort. I'd even done my hair, which had taken me a good thirty minutes. It was rolled into a chignon that looked effortless but hadn't been. I had spent time on my makeup, which I normally didn't do. I'd even worn my pearl earrings, the ones that I paid over a hundred dollars for.

"That’s okay," I lied. What the hell else could I say? Hey, that wasn't cool. I've been waiting like a moron here for twenty goddamn minutes? And even though I didn't say it, he already knew, didn't he?

"You look amazing." He grinned, looking every bit the suave nightclub owner, all the women dropped their panties for, and my heart gave a traitorous flutter.

"Thanks."

"I took the liberty of ordering the chef's menu but asked to do a four-course instead of a six." He looked at his watch. "I have to be at Paint the Town Red at ten, so, I hope that's okay."

Good God! Could he make me feel like even more of an afterthought?

"We don't have to do this if you're busy," I said softly. I lifted my glass of scotch. "I'm good with just a drink."

Keeping the façade of not caring was not easy—but I was the Queen of Stoicism; my skills were learned in the school of Rich Kids High and Crazy Aunt Fern.

"No, no, let's get this over with." He was looking at his phone as he spoke. "By the way, I forgot to ask, is there anything you're allergic to?"

I shook my head.

Let's get this over with?

Shame began to creep up inside of me, and my chest felt constricted.

"Excellent. You're going to love this meal. Chef Jacques does an amazing menu."

He set his phone aside and finally looked at me, giving me a host-to-guest smile.

"So, how was your Sunday?"

"Good. Yours?"

"Eventful." His eyes glinted with amusement.

Before I could reply noncommittally, the waiter presented our first course. It was a delicate plate of oysters on the half shell; each topped with a dollop of caviar and a sprig of dill. He poured a crisp chablis, the pale golden liquid swirling in my wine glass.

“Cheers.” Remi lifted his drink.

"Sante," I ventured with a smile that I pulled from deep within. I was going to enjoy this meal and ignore how Remi's rudeness. Even if this wasn't a date, he didn't have to make me feel like I was a chore.

Well, this was the last time I'd accept an invitation from him.

Brave words! Because even as I thought them, I knew that if Remi asked me out again, I'd be there with bells on, no matter how much of a non-date it would be.

How can I have such a high IQ and still be so pathetic? Why does Remi make me stupid?

I knew the answer to that. The heart was not connected to the brain.

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