VIP, and asks for me. I don’t know who he is or what he’s after, but I’m thankful for him and his generous tips, even though I can’t keep accepting them. It’s too much. Standing tall, well, as tall as my five-foot-six frame can stand, I head to the VIP section. As soon as I enter the room, I see him. As before, he’s staring down at his phone. He’s sitting at the same table in the back of the room. Tonight, however, there are two other tables that are occupied.
“Welcome to the Emerald Entrée, my name is Layla. I’ll be your server this evening,” I say, trying to remain professional, placing his menu, silverware, and glass of water on the table.
“Layla.” He looks up, and once again, I’m captivated by those blue eyes.
“Hi.” I wave, making the moment even more awkward. Reaching into my apron, I grab my pad and paper. “Would you like an appetizer?” I ask, getting right down to business.
When he doesn’t reply, I look up to find him staring at my same pair of worn-out shoes. The same pair of shoes he’s looked at every time he’s been here, in this exact seat. “We have pretzel bites on special tonight,” I continue to ramble on.
“I’ll have…” He looks up, and my breath hitches in my throat. I manage to write down his order as he lists the exact same meal—the one I have memorized. His blue eyes are intense, and it makes me wonder what he’s thinking about. Well, other than the fact that I still have the same shoes on my feet. I’d love to know what he’s thinking. Then again, the way he was just staring at my feet with a scowl on his face, maybe not.
“And to drink?” I ask him.
“Water.”
“Of course, I’ll get this put in and have your salad right out.” I turn and walk away, mindful that his eyes are on me. I can feel his stare. Typing his order into the computer, I go gather his salad and another fresh glass of water. “Here you go,” I say, setting it in front of him.
“Tell me, Layla, have you worked here long?” he asks. He’s been making small talk all week. What is there to do in the area? How far to the nearest mall? Questions that surprise me coming from him, but ones we get from tourists all the time. Well, until this one.
I look around and realize the other diners have left, and it’s just the two of us. “I have. I just had my seven-year anniversary.”
He nods. “Do you like working here?”
He’s not giving me the creep vibe, but I’m still uneasy with his questions. “I do. I needed a job, and the Emerald gave me a shot. I’ve been here ever since.” Taking a deep breath, I internally chastise myself. I don’t know why I just blabbed all of that.
“I’ll go check on your meal. Enjoy,” I say, turning away before he can ask another question, and I spill my life story. It’s those eyes. He could get me to tell him anything. He should work for the CIA or something. Hell, he might, I know nothing about him. I don’t even know his name.
I busy myself with my other tables, and this time when I drop off his meal, he’s on the phone having a conversation, so I’m able to drop off his food, along with steak sauce, a refill, extra napkins, and rush off. I don’t know what it is, but there is something about him. It’s as if his presence alone is commanding. I check on my other tables, then head back to his, hoping that he’s still occupied with his call.
When I approach, he lifts his head and watches me. “Did you save room for dessert?” I ask.
“Just the check,” he says, tossing his napkin on his now empty plate.
“Great, here you go. I can take it whenever you’re ready.”
“Wait.” He stands, pulls his wallet out of his pocket, grabs a few bills, and hands it to me. “Keep the change, Layla,” he says. His fingers slide across mine as he hands me the money, and my hand tingles from his touch.
“Thank you, uh, sir,” I say, fumbling with my words and once again making myself look like a fool in front of him. Unlike him, I’ve not badgered him with questions, including his name. He always pays in cash, so there is no credit card to tell me his name.