his grapes, he once returned a $250 bottle of vintage Mosel Riesling after a couple of sips because it didn’t pair well with his trout fillet.
While I wait, my eyes dart around the room, taking in the sights and smells. Waiters rush from table to table; diners laugh and spoon into their desserts. A tall man in a navy blue button-down shirt walks toward us, a mother links arms with her—wait, I’m drawn back toward the man. My eyes squint for clarity. Is that?
He sure looks like—no, it can’t be.
He comes closer and without any doubt, I know exactly who it is. The same quiet confidence. The same dark eyes. The same scratch on the tip of his nose. It’s him. It’s definitely him.
The man from the bar. He’s getting closer.
Oh, God.
What’s he doing here?
“Lanie?” Evan asks. “Do you like your wine?”
There’s a full glass in front of me.
“Um . . .” What if the guy recognizes me? What if he stops and says, “Hey, aren’t you the drunk I brought home in a cab?” I snake a menu from underneath Evan’s hand and duck behind it, nose to nose with the seafood specials.
Sweat seeps under my arms. Why did I wear that god-awful aluminum-free, organic deodorant Kit raves about? Sure, doctors say aluminum gives you cancer, but the deodorants without aluminum are crap. Total crap.
Evan barks at me, something about embarrassing him, but I disregard his words. It’ll be a lot more embarrassing having to explain how I know this man.
A quick peek over my menu.
The guy smiles.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Okay, no problem. It’ll be fine. Totally fine. Just don’t come over here.
Please Jesus, Buddha, Gandhi, witch doctor, Tom Cruise, anyone, please, please, please, don’t let him come over here. Please don’t—
“Evan,” a familiar voice says, “it’s good to see you. How long has it been?”
Huh?
Evan stands and shakes hands with
him
.
They know each other?
“Too long. Glad you made it, Weston.”
I stare at him in disbelief. So much for my fat Irish farmer theory.
“Thanks,” Weston says. He glances at me and his eyes flicker with recollection.
Oh, this will be awful. Just awful. Weston will spill everything.
“Lanie?” Evan tugs the menu from my death grasp. “What are you doing? Say hello to Weston.” Evan turns toward him, nodding in my direction. “Again, our apologies for the mix-up last night.”
“No problem.” Weston extends his hand toward me. “It’snice to meet you, Lanie. Call me Wes. I dropped the ‘-ton’ years ago, right after my boy band fell apart.”
He’s joking.
“Hello,” I say, filled with amazement. He’s not ratting me out. He’s not letting on one tiny bit that we met last night.
“Excuse me, I’m going to grab our waiter’s attention.” Evan disappears around the corner.
“The girl with the Someday Jar. How’s your throat?”
“A little sore.” I stare at him, puzzled.
“I bet.” He releases my hand.
“Hold on a second. You mean that whole time at the bar, you knew who I was and you didn’t say anything?”
“You were snockered on martinis. Lemon drops, I believe.”
I shudder at the thought. “Still, you could’ve said something.”
“Yeah, I could’ve.”
“All right, then.” Evan rejoins us. “Santo will be right over. Wes, have a seat. Lanie, your cheeks are flushed. You okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” I wring the napkin over and over in my lap. My brow creases with wariness.
Who is this guy?
Sure, he didn’t divulge that we met or broadcast to Evan my moronic display at the bar, but he played me for a fool. Okay, yes, I helped in the “fool” department. But still. Why not tell me who he was? After a long sip of wine, I say, “Tell me again, Evan. How do you know Wes?”
“Well, he’s worked with my parents on various projects, so we’ve met many times over the years, spent that one New Year’s in Park City with my folks.” He turns toward Wes. “Remember that double black diamond, east
While I wait, my eyes dart around the room, taking in the sights and smells. Waiters rush from table to table; diners laugh and spoon into their desserts. A tall man in a navy blue button-down shirt walks toward us, a mother links arms with her—wait, I’m drawn back toward the man. My eyes squint for clarity. Is that?
He sure looks like—no, it can’t be.
He comes closer and without any doubt, I know exactly who it is. The same quiet confidence. The same dark eyes. The same scratch on the tip of his nose. It’s him. It’s definitely him.
The man from the bar. He’s getting closer.
Oh, God.
What’s he doing here?
“Lanie?” Evan asks. “Do you like your wine?”
There’s a full glass in front of me.
“Um . . .” What if the guy recognizes me? What if he stops and says, “Hey, aren’t you the drunk I brought home in a cab?” I snake a menu from underneath Evan’s hand and duck behind it, nose to nose with the seafood specials.
Sweat seeps under my arms. Why did I wear that god-awful aluminum-free, organic deodorant Kit raves about? Sure, doctors say aluminum gives you cancer, but the deodorants without aluminum are crap. Total crap.
Evan barks at me, something about embarrassing him, but I disregard his words. It’ll be a lot more embarrassing having to explain how I know this man.
A quick peek over my menu.
The guy smiles.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Okay, no problem. It’ll be fine. Totally fine. Just don’t come over here.
Please Jesus, Buddha, Gandhi, witch doctor, Tom Cruise, anyone, please, please, please, don’t let him come over here. Please don’t—
“Evan,” a familiar voice says, “it’s good to see you. How long has it been?”
Huh?
Evan stands and shakes hands with
him
.
They know each other?
“Too long. Glad you made it, Weston.”
I stare at him in disbelief. So much for my fat Irish farmer theory.
“Thanks,” Weston says. He glances at me and his eyes flicker with recollection.
Oh, this will be awful. Just awful. Weston will spill everything.
“Lanie?” Evan tugs the menu from my death grasp. “What are you doing? Say hello to Weston.” Evan turns toward him, nodding in my direction. “Again, our apologies for the mix-up last night.”
“No problem.” Weston extends his hand toward me. “It’snice to meet you, Lanie. Call me Wes. I dropped the ‘-ton’ years ago, right after my boy band fell apart.”
He’s joking.
“Hello,” I say, filled with amazement. He’s not ratting me out. He’s not letting on one tiny bit that we met last night.
“Excuse me, I’m going to grab our waiter’s attention.” Evan disappears around the corner.
“The girl with the Someday Jar. How’s your throat?”
“A little sore.” I stare at him, puzzled.
“I bet.” He releases my hand.
“Hold on a second. You mean that whole time at the bar, you knew who I was and you didn’t say anything?”
“You were snockered on martinis. Lemon drops, I believe.”
I shudder at the thought. “Still, you could’ve said something.”
“Yeah, I could’ve.”
“All right, then.” Evan rejoins us. “Santo will be right over. Wes, have a seat. Lanie, your cheeks are flushed. You okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” I wring the napkin over and over in my lap. My brow creases with wariness.
Who is this guy?
Sure, he didn’t divulge that we met or broadcast to Evan my moronic display at the bar, but he played me for a fool. Okay, yes, I helped in the “fool” department. But still. Why not tell me who he was? After a long sip of wine, I say, “Tell me again, Evan. How do you know Wes?”
“Well, he’s worked with my parents on various projects, so we’ve met many times over the years, spent that one New Year’s in Park City with my folks.” He turns toward Wes. “Remember that double black diamond, east
Similar Books
