As I get closer, I can see them a little better. The one facing me is strawberry blond. He’s wearing creased khakis and a Ralph Lauren polo, and I’ve only ever seen his phone on commercials. Rich kid. The Chautauqua pass hanging around his neck confirms it. He’s kind of average looking, with freckles scattered across his nose and gel in his hair. The guy with his back to me has his head down, texting intently. All I can see is dark hair in a neat, short haircut. The strawberry blond guy looks up when he hears me coming. I plaster on my best, “I’m-going-to-kill-you-Violet” smile and stride confidently up to the table. The strawberry blond taps the table in front of his friend and points at me as I approach.
The dark-haired guy turns to look at me and my breath catches in my throat.
He’s a model. He has to be a model.
Long black eyelashes set off dark-brown eyes. High cheekbones and a strong jawline frame his face. His lips are full, and there’s the slightest dimple in his chin. His hair is thick and wavy, like a nonmarble version of Michelangelo’s David. His skin is the color of coffee with tons of cream and just as smooth.
I, of course, trip over my own ridiculous feet and he smiles, revealing a bright white smile with one tooth just crooked enough to keep him from being a toothpaste model. It makes him more handsome, if that’s possible.
Suddenly, I realize that I’m at the table. They’re both staring at me. I still have their menus.
“Hi,” I say breathlessly, looking away from Mr. Perfect Guy in order to keep from blushing. It’s not working. “I’m Robin.” I slide their menus onto the table. “What can I—”
“Two waters,” the strawberry blond interrupts.
“Sure!” I chirp. Give me a chance to finish my sentence, buddy. I venture a glance at Mr. Perfect Guy and he nods, his perfect lips still playing with a smile.
“Sounds good,” I say. “I’ll give you a minute with the menu.”
I turn toward the kitchen and give Violet bug eyes as I walk to the pop machine. “WHAT?!” I mouth. “WHAT?!”
She shrugs and smiles like the cat that caught the freakin’ bird of paradise.
When I’m back at the counter, getting the guys’ drinks, she sidles up to me. “I thought you didn’t want me to mess with your love life,” she says.
I snort. “I have no love life, Violet.”
“Well you might now.”
Ice clunks into the plastic cup. “That is a wonderful, delicious thought. But so far, he has only three qualifications out of the litany. He is, admittedly, tall, dark, and handsome. But kind heart? Good tipper? Music? Who knows! Admit it, Vi. You gave me a half hour of eye candy. Nothing more. Not that I don’t appreciate it. I surely appreciate it.”
She shakes her head, a twinkle in her eye. “I know a prize pig when I see one, Robin. I knew it the first time I saw Rex.” She points at the table. “That. Is a prize pig.”
I laugh full-out this time, shaking my head, a glass in each hand, and walk back to the table. Right before I reach it, I look back over my shoulder. Violet has bustled into the kitchen. Through the pass-through window, I see her and Fannie gossiping like sixth-grade girls. Fannie peeks through the window and I give her a don’t-you-start look. She grins and waggles her eyebrows before turning back to Violet.
I shake my head and plop the waters down, tossing a couple of straws from my apron pocket to the table.
“So, what can I get for you today?” I say, pen and paper ready.
“I’ll have a bacon cheeseburger with everything, and fries,” says the strawberry blond. He checks his phone and points at Mr. Perfect Guy. “He’ll have a bacon cheeseburger with pickles, no onion, and fries.”
“Okay…” So maybe this is a date, after all. Strawberry blond is ordering for both of them. I venture a glance at Mr. Perfect Guy. He’s wearing a fitted blue T-shirt, which tells me that he works out but says nothing about his sexual orientation. No Chautauqua pass. He glances up from his phone and gives a little nod and a closemouthed smile. I blush.
“Sounds good,” I say. “Anything else?”
“Nope,” says strawberry blond. His phone buzzes and he checks it. “Um, and a chocolate milkshake. After the meal.”
“Okay.” I force a smile.
Milkshakes are a pain. I have to make them myself and the milkshake spinner is so ancient it splashes everywhere. There’s a good chance that I’ll end up with as much milkshake on myself as in the glass.
Turning back toward the kitchen, I give a defeated look to Violet.
“What?” she says as I punch the order into the computer. (Grape Country Dairy is so small we don’t need one, but at least this way Fannie doesn’t have to read my writing.) “What? Does he have a girlfriend?”
“I think… ,” I say, finding the No Onion button, “he has a boyfriend.”
“Noooo!”
“Unfortunately, yes. The strawberry blond guy has been ordering for both of them. All the time. Mr. Perfect Guy hasn’t spoken once.”
“Oh, well. What can you do?” Violet says hopelessly.
“I know. Le sigh.”
“How’d it go?” hollers Fannie from the kitchen, over the kkssshhhh of frying bacon and burgers.
“He’s gay!” yells back Violet.
“Vi!” I glance back over my shoulder at the guys, all the way across the restaurant, to see if they heard. Strawberry blond is looking in our direction, but Mr. Perfect Guy is still bent over his phone.
“Figures,” yells back Fannie. “All the hot ones are.”
“Except Rex,” corrects Violet.
“Except Rex,” agrees Fannie.
“Will you two stop!”
“We’ll find him,” says Violet, affectionately patting the paper tacked to the wall. She plucks the pen from my hand and adds “Not gay” to the corner of the list.
“Thank you,” I say, taking my pen back. “Thanks for that.”
The front door swings open.
“Anywhere ya want!” Violet calls out, and grabs two menus as a new couple sits down.
Too soon the burgers are done and plated with their respective fries. I load a tray and strut, tray balanced on my hand and shoulder, to their table. I keep ketchup and mustard in my apron pockets. This time both guys are looking up at me, practically licking their lips.
I swing the tray down to the table and lift the plates off, sliding each one in front of the correct guy.
“Thanks,” says strawberry blond.
“No problem.” I grin. Our burgers rock. Especially with Fannie on grill. I glance over to Mr. Perfect Guy.
He smiles at me and nods.
“Anything else I can get?” I ask as I pull the ketchup and mustard bottles from my apron and set them in the middle of the table.
“Nope,” says strawberry blond.
I get another table as the guys chow on their burgers. It’s just the farmers, in for their afternoon coffee. They smell like manure but look like my grandpa, so it’s okay.
When I look over, the guys are almost done with their burgers.
Crap.
Milkshake.
I scuttle back to the ice-cream station and grab a milkshake tin, pile in three scoops, add milk, and squeeze in some chocolate. I hold a towel up like a shield in front of me as I slide the milkshake tin under the spindle and the machine whirs to life. After a few seconds, I check its progress. Bad idea. The spindle chooses that moment to catch a chunk of ice cream and splatter milk and chocolate across my face. I hastily shield myself with the towel once more, blinking milkshake out of my eyes.