Page 2 of A Flighty Fake Boyfriend
“No, thank you.”
He didn’t leave. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” I glanced around. No one else seemed to think he was acting weird. Weirder. More weird than normal.
“Okay. Thank you.” He walked away again, his shoulders as tense as before.
I tried a bit of my oatmeal. It seemed okay—at least my stomach didn’t rebel. I added some dried fruit and half-and-half and had another few spoonfuls.
Nausea fluttered, making me swallow several times. Herbal tea usually helped with the sensation, so I took a long swallow. This was the hangover talking, right? There was no reason to invent a connection between the wedding and any digestive issues I might be having.
I felt eyes on me. To my left, my server peeked over the half wall that hid the point-of-sale machine. When he saw me, he ducked. I briefly wondered if I’d missed a news report about spree killers who matched my description.
The tea was good. I ate my breakfast slowly. At home, the entire purpose of food was fuel, and I managed as much as I could before pushing the bowl away. Beads of sweat itched at my hairline.
When the waiter came back, he dropped the check and whispered something in my ear.
“Excuse me?”
“Meet me out back.” He jerked his head. “By the dumpster.”
My need for a cigarette caused me to linger in the parking lot, so I thought why not?
“Muse” slipped out the back door, glanced both ways, and called out, “Hey.Pssst. C’mere.”
Intrigued enough to solve The Mystery of the Very Weird Waiter, I strolled his way.
He pulled something from behind his back. My heart gave a jolt. Leaped? Stuttered? Nausea crept into my throat, and I nearly lost what little I’d eaten on the pavement. I backed away, hands up.
Turned out he wasn’t holding a gun or a knife but a creamy orange drink.
My reaction probably seemed absurd—at least to anyone who hadn’t recently traveled to a part of the world the US State Department considered too dangerous for Americans.
“Jesus,” I reached out and fell against the wall. “What is wrong with you?”
“Me?” He held a to-go cup in one shaking hand. “I just wanted to give you this. For later, you know. If you want.”
I still couldn’t believe this was happening. “What is it?”
“Mango lassi.” He bit his lip. “With whey protein. It’s, um…it’s easy to digest, and—”
“You made me a mango lassi?”
“It’s on the menu.” He said this like,Duh.“I recommend it because you seem so”—he glanced away—“not okay today.”
While my heart rate went back to normal, I studied him. Thick dark hair, pale skin, and piercing blue eyes. The rest of him was hidden beneath a typical Parisian waiter’s uniform: white shirt, white apron, black vest, and trousers.
I fidgeted when he frowned at me. He made me want to straighten things like his tie and my spine.
“I’m not very hungry this morning.”
He let out a breath. “Look, it’s none of my business, but my grandmother swears by these for hangovers. You looked like you could use one.”
I rubbed my forehead with the heel of my hand. Then I heard my hair sizzle.
“Whoa, pyro.” He took the cigarette from my hand. “You singed your hair.”
“Aw shit. I hate the smell of burning hair. It stays with you forever.”
