Page 48 of Geordie

I ruffle at what I think sounds condescending. “How's your starting a family going?” My off-topic question is enough for his attention to land on me.

Geordie stiffens, probably surprised by the question. He leans his body toward me as if giving away a secret. “I've decided to pursue the surrogacy route. I've given up looking for a co-parent, because it might take years to find a match.” He pulls his leg over to straddle the bench. “You've been trying to avoid saying something ever since we left the doctor's office. Are you sure you're alright?”

Even under the dark, opaque glasses, I know he's concerned. I asked him on this outing thinking his light, teasing company would make me feel better, not to bare my soul. “I'm fine,” I lie, looking away from his scrutiny. “That reminds me, Dalliance has been invited to interview with the Catriona committee. Thank you.”

He withdraws. His manner becomes a little subdued, and his gaze is back on the knot of people ambling by. “I had nothing to do with that. The selection committee screens the applications. You received that invitation on your own merit. I've recused myself from the process.”

“Who makes the final decision?”

“Lochlan, my cousin. It will be his decision alone.”

I remember that dark, handsome man standing next to Geordie in the photos I found on the web. What is he like under that brooding, laird-of-the-castle appearance? Is it possible he told his cousin about our misunderstanding and Dalliance will be rejected in the end?

“Hopefully, I'll get a chance to meet Lochlan if we get a final interview.”

He places his hand over mine. “Don't worry, things have a way of working out.” His support is more than I can handle right now, so before his fingers curl around my palm, I pull away. He says nothing at my withdrawal, just looks at me curiously.

I give him a weak smile. “I promised you dessert. We should grab that before we head back. I've got to be at the restaurant by four.”

Chapter twenty-three

Been Here Before

Lily

Imakemywayin the dim light of the restaurant to the center of about twenty tables draped with white cloth set for service. Light from the kitchen pours onto the edge of the room, making a division like night and day. Tony is at his station prepping. He's usually the first in, last out at night. The rest of the crew won't be in for another forty-five minutes. Tony, Harv's protégée, will go with him to which ever restaurant he manages, either here or the Catriona site if we win our bid.

My key sticks in the lock as I attempt to turn the metal, pushing my shoulder to the office door to help it release. It does and I stumble into the room. Stacks of paper, small bottles of olive oil and vinegar samples, tissue boxes, trade magazines, and a box of pens litter my desk. I haven't had a minute to think since my appointment at the doctor's office this morning and if I plunge myself into paperwork, returning calls from those blinking voicemail messages, and working in the kitchen, I'll worry less.

Harv is by my side as I conduct the crew meeting. He interjects information I've forgotten as I go over tonight's menu. We pass around samples of a new wine we’re offering on the menu and also get their opinion on an appetizer Harv and I are thinking of including next week.

“We're nearly booked solid with our reservations, but we'll have walk-ins and service at the bar tonight. Now, let's give our customers the best night out they've had in their lives,” I say to a smiling crew. It's what I say at the end of every crew meeting.

We filled the house, as predicted. The kitchen crew has worked together for a long time, our movements like a choreographed dance. Towards the end of the evening, my maître d' signals me, wanting a word. I nod and motion for him to meet me in the pantry.

“Is there a problem with a customer or the service?” I ask, closing the door. My maître d' is a square, compact man wearing a dark, tailored suit. His black hair gelled into place, he’s clean shaven with an air of efficiency.

“Well, chef, you can say that it's both. We have a patron who's still standing in the reception area talking to the hostess, insisting he has a reservation, under the name F. Flintstone. The hostess didn't know what to do, so she called me over. This patron is quite famous.”

“Who is he, some political figure, or do we have a rock star in the restaurant?” I sigh. Our prices prohibit the average restaurant goer to book a reservation. And, mostly, people are polite and well behaved, then there are the ones who aren't. According to the knitted brow and the thin lip line my maître d' is sporting, we're in the bad-behavior category.

He pulls on the lapels of his jacket. “He didn't give me his name, but I think it's Mr. Stephen Dunaway. I'm not sure; I've never met him. If he isn't, he's an excellent impostor.”

I swing open the door, flying through the kitchen with the maître d' on my heels, stopping in a small area that separates the kitchen from the dining room to peek out behind an enormous flower arrangement. Stephen, with elbows on the podium, is charming my hostess to distraction. I turn around and almost bump into my maître d'. “How many people are in Mr. Flintstone's party?”

“One, he insisted on dining alone next to the window that looks out at the street, instead of a courtyard view.”

“Ask Mr. Flintstone to come to my office.”

“But, chef, he's insisting on a table.”

Stephen has never been to Dalliance. Only Harv knows we dated. “Mr. Flintstone is an old friend. Tell him you are escorting him to my office for a pre-dinner drink before he's seated.”

The man walks out into the restaurant toward the hostess podium. I scurry back to my office, removing my hat, tossing it on the side counter, and shaking out my hair. Why does Stephen feel the need to visit me here at Dalliance tonight? I have little time for an in-depth analysis when there's a soft knock at my door.

“Come.”

Stephen strides confidently into the tiny space, stopping to take in his surroundings. My heart tightens. It doesn't seem real that he's here. No wonder the hostess was giddy with his attention. He has a way of making you feel special.

---