Page 26 of Implode

I furrow my brow. “Umm, I’ve never been here before. So, I guess just give me the seat that…oh I don’t know. Just pick one. I am super hungry and the smell coming out of the restaurant enticed me into entering,” I ramble.

Her smile moves from professional to genuine. “I love it here,” she says sweetly. “I get to eat during my breaks, and I thought after a few months of working here I’d grow tired of the food. Nope. Just makes me crave it more. It’s addicting. I tried replicating the same type of cooking styles in my own kitchen and it never turns out the same. I really hope you enjoy your experience.”

“Thank you,” I say with a smile.

“I also have the best seat for you next to the water fountain. Follow me.”

I allow her to escort me through the restaurant. We pass by a huge salad bar that is bigger than any I have ever seen before. Several chandeliers hang from the rafters, competing for attention with a wall fountain that is absolutely breathtaking. A male waiter takes over the hostess’s duties and pulls out a chair for me, pushes me toward the table, and offers me an elaborate drink menu. I scan over it fast and notice that they have four different water options.

“Just spring water for now and some lemon wedges if you have any.”

“Are you expecting anyone else?” he asks.

I shake my head. “No. It’s just me.”And my unborn baby.

“Very well. The way Cutlery works is that there are no menu options for dining in. All of our guests are encouraged and welcome to frequent the salad bar as often as they want. Meat will be brought around to your table on skewers by various staff members. If you are wanting more, keep this card up on green.” He places a little circular coaster that has two felt sides onto the surface of the table. “And if you want to stop the meat parade, just flip it to red.”

“Sounds easy enough,” I say cheerfully. I glance around the restaurant and see the men dressed in all black carrying the huge metal skewers of various meats. This is a great way to break my vegan-ness. Might as well keep it classy. My mouth is already watering over that first bite. I turn my card to green and place my cloth napkin on my lap. “Let the meat parade begin.”

The waiter motions over one of the staff members holding bacon-wrapped scallops. I nod and watch as my empty plate gets the first offering. Another worker has prime rib. I nod my head eagerly. When the pecan-and-parmesan-crusted chicken arrives, I just motion with my fork to add it to my meat hill, because my mouth is gaping in awe. It isn’t until the pork chops and filet mignon top my plate that I decide to turn my card to red.

My leaning tower of meat is huge. I may have overindulged, and I haven’t even eaten anything yet. Reaching for my fork, I give it a kiss and then stab it into the stack. I cut my first piece of beef and am just about to place it in my mouth when I hear, “Claire?” from behind me. No!

My head whips around, and I see Nic Hoffman standing in a pair of black trousers and a silver-gray shirt. I roll my eyes over the fact that our outfits match.

“Hi,” I say suspiciously. I try to look around him to see who he’s with. Maybe he’s on a date or with family. I feel slightly embarrassed over gaining another witness to my eating choices. I hate feeling judged.

“Never in a million years would I bet to find you at a Brazilian Steakhouse.” One look at my mountain of meat, and he can’t hold back a smirk. “May I join you?”

“I’m not sharing,” I blurt out, ready to stab any hands with my fork if they move too close. I have a plan of shaving off layers from my pile, and I have already envisioned how I will be savoring every bite. And I definitely don’t need help with my appetite.

My eyes follow his every movement as he takes a step closer and hovers over the free chair opposite me. He smiles as he notices the empty glass and still-wrapped silverware. He knows I’m alone.

“May I?”

“Don’t you already have a table?” I ask with confusion.

“They were boring company,” he mutters. “Plus, watching my favorite vegan eat a plate of meat is way more enjoyable than some stuffy colleagues who want my expertise to solve all their problems.”

“Fine. Sit. But I’m not making small talk with you. I came to eat and eating is what I plan to do. And quit looking at me like that, or I’ll be the one who chooses another table.”

Nic holds his hands up in mock surrender, as he stifles a laugh. He never was good at resisting teasing me. He pulls out the chair across from me and motions with a hand to the waiter.

“What can I get you to drink other than water?” Nic asks, nodding toward my glass.

“I’m fine with water.”

“What can I do for you, sir?” the waiter asks.

“I’ll take a glass of your house wine. Red.”

“Of course,” he responds, never questioning why my table for one is now a table for two.

“Oh, and a glass of your finest ginger ale with lemon slices.”

“Right away,” the waiter responds, with a nod to his head.

“You must be thirsty,” I mumble.

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