Just a Girl - Becky Monson Page 0,17

like that wasn’t just a no from him, but a heck no. Like, he wouldn’t be caught dead working in television news. So maybe I should keep up with it, at least a little while longer. Until I know what he meant. I can’t put it off for too long. It’s only a matter of time before he turns on the TV and sees my face on there. I’ve never been more grateful than I am right now to be on the lower-rated midday news or not have my pictures on billboards.

“Um, yeah, rough. I work with wood, remember? Rough? Wood? It’s an industry joke,” I say, batting the word away with my hand like I’m just being silly when in reality it might be one of the dumbest things I’ve ever said.

“Right,” he says, his lips curving up into a genuine smile, the dimple in his right cheek even more pronounced. He’s so beautiful; it’s like I-can’t-believe-I’m-sitting-here-with-him beautiful. Especially in the dark-blue button-down shirt and jeans he’s wearing.

This is not my life. I don’t meet men like Henry, in all his British hotness, and then end up spending time with them. My mind has gone back and forth between not believing this is real and wondering if we’ll name our first son Henry Junior. He’s just so . . . pretty. And it’s not just me who’s noticed. Our server, John, has paid attention to only him since we sat in this booth and hasn’t even looked me in the eyes once. I don’t blame him.

Henry and I small talk until John returns and asks us for our order. Well, John asks Henry for his order and then stares at Henry while half-asking me for mine. I’m pretty sure I’m not going to get what I ordered.

“How did the interviews go?” I ask after John leaves, his eyes very puppy doggish as he said he’d go put our orders in. It took a lot longer than your standard server/customer interaction. John kept talking to us, which was super annoying, and when he finally walked away, he kept turning back and looking at our table—at Henry, really—so often that he almost collided with another server.

For Henry’s part, he was all smiles and politeness, and I’m now wondering if I’ll have to duel John at the end of this meal to be able to spend the rest of the evening with Henry.

Henry looks down at the table separating us and then back up at me. “I think it went well.”

“Do you think you’ll get it? The . . . uh, job?” My heart does a little skipping thing as I await his answer. It’s like we’ve just flipped a coin. Heads, he gets the job and this thing that’s just starting to happen between us could actually happen. Or at least has a fighting chance. Or tails, he goes back to Miami and that’s the end of that. I say a silent prayer that it’s heads. Please be heads. Please, oh please, oh please.

“I do,” he says confidently. “I even started looking for apartments today.” His lips pull up into a charming smile.

Heads it is! I want to stand up from this booth and skip around while the mariachi band plays “La Cucaracha.”

“You did? Where?”

Henry pulls out his phone, and we spend the next bit looking at his options. I may have steered him away from anything not in walking distance from my place. A girl’s got to plan.

John brings us our food and then hangs out by our table, asking and re-asking if we need anything. And by we, obviously I mean just Henry.

I look at Henry’s plate and then back at mine. His has one of those combo plates with everything under the sun on it, covered with sauce and cheese and put under a broiler so it comes out all bubbly and melty. I move a fork through my boring salad, staring at it and wishing it were something else.

“Salad not good?” Henry asks.

“Huh?” I say, looking up at him. I’ve been staring at my food, which must look pretty strange to Henry. I mean, who does that? “No, it’s . . . great,” I say, stabbing a piece of cucumber with my fork and putting it in my mouth. I give him a closed-mouth smile as I chew it.

“Looks boring,” he says with a nod toward my plate.

I let out a fragile laugh. It teeters between real and fake. “You know what? It is,” I say, pushing