Page 12 of Her Counterfeit Christmas
I should have worn the blue dress like Spencer suggested.
“Do you have a reservation?” The concierge’s raised eyebrows tell me he expects a no.
If he knew I had fifty-three dollars and ten cents in mychecking account, he would kick me out in an instant. That wouldn’t even cover an appetizer.
I hope he doesn’t catch my nervousness as I speak. “Yes, it’s under Spencer Eccleston?”
The concierge covers his tablet with a hand as he scans the screen for Spencer’s name, then gives me a pointed look like he thinks I’m lying about knowing Spencer to get out of the cold. “Mr. Eccleston has yet to arrive. Shall we show you to your seat?”
“No,” I say quickly. “I’d like to wait here.”
Because if Spencer cancels due to a work obligation, I’d rather not feel compelled to order anything. This is the type of restaurant that doesn’t print the prices of their entrees on the menu.
I turn away so it’s not so awkward and stare at the ornate door.
Please show up. Please show up. Please show up.
I catch myself chewing on my thumbnail and hide my hands behind my back, clasping my fingers tight to keep them away from my mouth. Nervousness makes me want to keep my hands busy, but sadly, this isn’t the place to pull the sock I’m knitting out of my purse.
As nervous as I am about what I plan to ask Spencer, my thoughts keep turning to Owen. This restaurant is gorgeous, and I’m sure the food is divine, but I’d rather be in his car with sappy Christmas tunes playing on the radio and eating subpar fries than here. I like him. A lot. I surmise the feeling is mutual. He did ask for my number so we could have a real date.
Thoughts about Owen lead back to my staggering debt that will only get worse as the years go on. Is there a point ingoing out with him on an actual date when anything serious between us would lead to pulling him into my depressing financial future? No, which is why I didn’t give him my phone number.
My hopeless romantic situation makes me sad.
I glance at my watch. Spencer’s twenty minutes late. He hasn’t contacted me with an explanation or cancellation. How long do I wait? When do I accept that he got tied up with work and isn’t coming?
After twenty-six minutes, the concierge clears his throat, and I know he’s about to escort me off the premises, but then the door opens and there’s Spencer. He came. I’m so relieved, I feel limp.
A gust of winter wind sweeps in after him, and his long coat rustles around his knees. He’s just as striking as ever, with light brown hair slicked back in a pompadour. Hazel eyes, high cheekbones, and thick eyebrows make him look classically handsome. Like always, I’m surprised he’s here with me.
He’s six inches taller than my five seven height, and he leans down to kiss my cheek. Then he takes my hand between his gloved ones and gives it a tight squeeze. It does not make my heart race.
“Thank you for meeting me at the last minute, Layla.” He’s earnest in his greeting, and it dispels my anxiety over his tardiness. “It’s good to see you.”
“It’s good to see you too, Spencer.”
It really is. We don’t work as a romantic couple, but we’re friends, and he’s so busy I rarely see him.
“They should have taken you to our table,” he scolds. “It’s cold in the entry, and you shouldn’t be made to wait here.”
The concierge and I wear twin blushes.
“No,” I say. “I wanted to wait for you before being seated.”
He shakes his head like he doesn’t understand why I wanted to wait by the door when I could enjoy my wine while sitting at a table.
“Mr. Eccleston,” the concierge says in greeting. “May I take your coats?”
Once relieved of our winter wear, we’re led to a table along the windows that look out on the city lights of Salt Lake City. Spencer pulls out my chair. I’ve always appreciated him for being a gentleman.
What I don’t appreciate is how work is his first, second, and third priorities, as illustrated when his phone rings and he takes the call as he sits down. I look out of the window as the waiter fills our wine glasses and brings appetizers.
I should wait for Spencer to finish his call before digging into the crusty bread with olive tapenade and cheese spread, but after five minutes, I give up. The fries I shared with Owen are long gone, and I’m hungry. It’s Spencer’s fault if he misses out on the delectable appetizers.
Spencer’s call ends, but he doesn’t look up as he types on his phone. “I called ahead and ordered our meal. What do you think of the tapenade?”
“Delicious.” I’m not sure he hears my answer. His brow furrows as he reads something on his phone.
