Page 79 of Faking I Do
“I’d prefer to leave it on the table if you don’t mind.” He gave me a forced smile.
“I do mind. We ordered chocolate cake.” I put both hands on the plate and thrust it toward him.
“As you wish.” He took the plate and turned toward the kitchen, disappearing through the door as Bodie approached from the other direction.
“Sorry about that.” Bodie slid back into the seat across from me. “Had to sort something out.”
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
“Yeah, it’s fine. More wine?” He didn’t wait for me to reply before he topped off my glass.
“You sure you’re okay?” I took a small sip.
“Oh, absolutely.” But the way he ran a finger around the inside of his collar told me otherwise. Something had him rattled, I could tell by the way he tapped his fingertips on the white tablecloth. Bodie had never been a tapper. But if he wanted to pretend all was cool, I wouldn’t push the issue.
A giant slice of chocolate cake materialized in front of me. The waiter slid it onto the table along with two forks. “Your chocolate cake.”
“But . . .” Bodie looked around like he expected the waiter to pull another slice out of thin air. “Where’s the flan?”
“We ordered chocolate cake,” I said. “I sent the flan back.”
“You what?” He stood from the table, towering over the waiter, who seemed to shrink under Bodie’s heated glare.
“The lady refused the flan, sir. I returned it to the kitchen.”
Bodie took a fork and dug it into the middle of the cake. Chocolate crumbs flew everywhere.
“What are you doing? Have you lost your mind?” I pushed back from the table as Bodie massacred the cake. Chocolate frosting splattered over our wineglasses and covered his fingers.
Finally, he turned his gaze on me. “The flan. Our engagement story? I was going to get pictures tonight.”
I put my hand to my forehead. That’s what this was all about? He was trying to surprise me with a fake proposal? “I’m sorry, I don’t even like flan.”
“What?” He stopped rummaging through the cake. “Then why the hell did you tell the reporter I proposed to you with a ring on top of some flan?”
My cheeks flamed. “I don’t know. I was trying to come up with a good story.”
“I’ve got to get that ring.” He wrapped a chocolate-covered hand around the waiter’s arm, leaving brown streaks all over the long, white sleeve. “What did you do with that flan?”
“It’s in-n-n-n-n the k-k-itchen,” the poor waiter stuttered.
Bodie reached for my hand. “Let’s go.”
I followed him through a set of swinging doors into the commercial kitchen. Someone holding a giant knife stopped chopping carrots and stepped in front of Bodie. “Sir, you can’t come in here.”
“I’m looking for my ring. You were supposed to deliver it to our table so I could propose.” Bodie gestured to where I stood half-hidden behind him. Confronting men with large knives wasn’t my style.
“Where did the flan go?” The chef waved his knife in the air. “The one that was sent back.”
“Took it to table seven.” One of the servers raced by, his arms full of dishes.
“Which way is table seven?” Bodie asked.
“Follow me,” the server said.
Bodie whipped around, still holding on to my hand, and pulled me out of the kitchen. As we entered the main dining room, everyone erupted into a round of applause. A couple stood in the middle of the room, the woman holding her left hand out and admiring a huge yellow diamond sitting squarely on her ring finger.
“Dammit.” Bodie let go of my hand and picked his way through the tables to the center of the room. I waited where he left me, not wanting to put myself in the center of attention. My goal of keeping a low profile had been blown to bits . . . again.
