“Can I help you?” The hostess wears a tiny little hat on half her head. She looks me up and down and doesn’t smile. “Do you have a reservation?”
“St. Clair?” I ask and the hostess’s demeanor immediately changes.
“Oh, of course!” She smiles broadly. “Right this way, please, watch your step.”
She seats me at a table by the window with a gorgeous view of the twinkling lights of San Francisco. The tiered shadows of the city skyline and the darkness of the bay beyond spread out before me. It feels like I’m on top of the world. Not two seconds pass before a waiter is asking if I would like a cocktail. I pick something from the long list on the table, and he hurries away.
I settle back, thinking how nice it is to not be the one running into the kitchen and bringing drinks. Though, this is a gorgeous restaurant to be working in. The moody blue lighting pools all around me. Deep brown oak wood beams show in the ceiling and the thick wooden tables look like slabs sliced right off redwoods. Leather seats, deep cushions. Recessed light above and tabletop candles complete the look: classy, romantic.
“Your drink,” the waiter says. “Can I get you anything else while you wait for your companion?”
“No thanks,” I say, impressed at all the attention I’m getting just because I used St. Clair’s name, but as soon as he’s gone I realize I haven’t eaten since my late breakfast. Beautifully composed trays of food pass by—dumplings in red, orange and white, plates of cooked veggies in sauces and dough balls and crispy fried pockets of goodness packed with things that smell like heaven…
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” St. Clair says, appearing suddenly at my side. I bob out of my seat as he bends down to kiss my cheek.
“Sorry!” I blurt, as I knock right into him.
He smiles. “How about we try that again?”
Resting one hand on my arm, he leans in and kisses my cheek. This time, I stay still, savoring the feel of his mouth brushing lightly against my skin.
“I hope you’re not too hungry,” he says, moving to sit opposite. I drop back into my chair, my heart suddenly pounding.
“I’m fine,” I say just as my stomach rumbles. I’m mortified, but he laughs, his dimples showing.
He has dimples too?
“Let’s get that seen to.” He only has to make eye contact before two waiters are hurrying to our table. “We’d like the chef’s sampler plate—he knows what I like—and I’ll have whatever fruity drink my date is enjoying.”
“Very good, sir,” the waiter says and leaves.
St. Clair turns to me, gives me the full strength of his gaze. There’s a slight lift of one eyebrow and a playful upward tilt of his mouth that hints at a smile waiting to be unleashed. “So, Grace.” His blue eyes are penetrating. “Now that we have a chance to get to know each other…who are you?”
My mind goes blank. “Uh, well, besides working at Carringer’s I’m also a waitress and an art student.”
“Where do you attend school?”
“Oh, well, I graduated last year from— uh, with an art degree.” I stop before I can tell him about my less than illustrious pedigree. I still remember the way Lydia sneered, so I turn the conversation around. “How about you?”
“I studied at Oxford and Harvard, finance,” he says casually. “But my life experiences have always been more valuable to me.”
I nod, unable to make my mouth move. What is wrong with me?! I take a sip of my drink and he glances out the window. Say something! “Pretty out there,” I manage and realize I sound like a four year old.
“Did you grow up in the city?” he asks.
“East Bay,” I manage to reply. “Oakland. It was kind of sketchy in our neighborhood, but Mom always said it made things more interesting. There was a lot of different art and culture—”
“Charles St. Clair?” A gorgeous woman in a shimmering cocktail dress stands next to our table in four inch heels, towering over us.
He looks surprised. “Have we met?”
“No, I just had to come over and say hello,” she gushes. “You are so smart, and your piece in Newsweek was just so insightful.” Her face looks familiar and I search to place it.
“Thank you.” St Clair is polite. “That’s nice of you to say.”
The woman gives him a practiced sexy half smile and extends her hand. “Lori Sloane.”
Seriously? I stare at her in disbelief. Now I recognize her, she’s a famous Hollywood actress. I’ve only ever seen her in the gossip magazines, but here she is, looking at St. Clair like she wants to eat him right up. She holds his hand for a beat too long before she lets go.
“This is my friend, Grace,” St. Clair says, gesturing to me. I fake a smile and try to ignore the sting of his word choice. Of course we’re friends. How else would he introduce me?
Lori glances my way for a split second. “You must come visit me in L.A. next month.” She bats her eyelashes and places her hand on his arm. “We can relax by the pool all day and drink all night.” She giggles and leans so he can make sure to see her cleavage.
“My schedule is a little busy,” he says.
“Oh, you’ll make time. It’ll be positively fabulous!” She flips her long blonde hair and squeezes Charles’ bicep. “I’ll see you—soon.” She winks and walks away and I am dumbfounded. A ten-foot tall goddess of a starlet just hit on my date.
“I’m so sorry,” he apologizes, giving me a rueful look as soon as Lori is out of earshot.
“It’s fine,” I lie, but now I really feel out of my league. “I’m sure that kind of thing happens to you all the time.”
“Maybe we should have gone somewhere quieter.” He refolds his napkin, looking uncomfortable.
“It’d be the same wherever we go,” I say, trying to make my voice light. “I mean, of course people are going to recognize you.”
“You didn’t,” he points out, with a teasing grin.
I flush. “Other people are much more in the know than I am,” I say.
“Well,” he says, leaning back. “I want to know more about you.” His blue eyes are clear, honest, and I almost believe it’s not a line he’s used before.
The food arrives in a whirlwind of dozens of trays, bamboo baskets and plates of all shapes and sizes until our table is covered with enough food to feed a small army. My mouth waters and my stomach growls again, loud enough that Charles laughs and I can tell this is his real laugh, the unguarded laugh, and it’s like a switch flips in my brain. So I’m not a Hollywood star, but he asked me out. Enough insecurity, I need to relax and start enjoying the night.
“This looks amazing,” I sigh happily.
“Dig in!” he says, lifting a steamer basket full of dumplings. “The shu mai here are out of this world.”
They are. Like little pork pillows of joy, salty and savory and delicious. Everything is incredible. I wolf down a doughy bun filled with pork, several assorted dumplings, and some fried noodles before I realize I’m not being very ladylike. “Sorry,” I giggle, pausing with my chopsticks halfway to my mouth. “I guess I was hungrier than I thought.”
“Don’t apologize for enjoying yourself,” he smiles, digging into his own food. “It’s nice to see a woman who actually eats her food instead of making it dance around the plate.”
I laugh. “Well I’m sure those women look better than I do.”
“You look great,” he says, and the look in his eyes tells me it’s not just a line.
I flush. You too. I take a sip of water to cool down. “So you’re a business mogul?”
St. Clair laughs. “You could put it like that. I run the financial services company my dad started—high level banking, essentially. But I took the firm global, hired some people smarter than me, and now the business basically runs itself.”
“I doubt that.” I smile. “You’re just being modest.”
He chuckles. “Is it working?”
“Hmmm,” I pretend to think. “We’ll have to see.”