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  A few minutes later, I see my waitress pass through the swinging doors as she emerges from the kitchen like somebody set fire to her backside. She has some reddish-colored sauce on her shirt, probably cocktail sauce, which tells me she’s already had one waitress-related incident today and she looks flustered – face covered in a layer of sweat – cheeks reddened like she’s one customer away from throwing in the towel, or in her case, the apron.

  “Hi,” she says, approaching my table. I smell hints of her perfume that’s mostly worn off at this time of day but it’s her staple. The distinctive smell comingles with her sweat. Reminds me of her.

  I look at her nametag for the umpteenth time since I’ve been coming here. It says, Lo. It can’t be her real name was my first thought when I saw it three months ago and it’s the same thing I think now. Who on earth would name their child, Lo?

  “I’m so sorry, I got slammed all at once. I didn’t see you come in,” she informs me, holding a pen and a small pad while she cranks out excuses, her breath kissing the side of my face.

  It annoys me to hear people apologize for not doing their job. Why apologize? Just do the job. If she was my employee, I’d fired her months ago.

  After she’s done complaining about her heavy workload that doesn’t make me any more sympathetic to her plight, she asks, “What can I get for you today? The usual?”

  I throw up a brow at her. The usual? She actually knows I have a usual?

  Impossible.

  “Do you know what my usual is?” I ask.

  “Of course, I do,” she says. She looks slightly offended that I asked. “You order the same thing every time you come in here. Drive me nuts, but who am I? I’m just the waitress. I don’t tell people what to order. I take orders. Day in and day out. So, what’s it going to be? The tuna tartare for an appetizer, pan-seared salmon for the main course, a glass of water with two lemon slices and a glass of Zuccardi Chardonnay? Or will you be having something else?”

  And just like that my mind is blown like the head gasket in that piece-of-junk LeBaron in the parking lot that hasn’t moved for a few days. The City of Charlotte already stamped it with a bright orange sticker which meant a tow truck would pick it up soon and take it to a car cemetery. That’s where it belonged, anyway.

  “Sir?”

  I glance up at her name tag, not her and say, “Yes, Lo?” Then I look at her. I still can’t make out the color of her eyes.

  A frown comes to her face. “How do you know my name?”

  My eyes roll down to her name badge that’s pinned on her shirt right above the cocktail sauce splatter. She looks down, remembering she was wearing a name tag. Embarrassment creeps over her girlish face.

  “Oh. Right.”

  This close, I can see she’d scratched off the other letters that used to make ‘Lo’ into a whole name, probably a decent one, but I couldn’t quite make out the faded letters to determine what they were.

  She’s staring at me.

  I’m staring at her, then I say, “How about you get me a glass of water before I die of thirst?”

  “That’s a little farfetched, but sure. I’ll get you some water. Before you die. Of thirst.” She rolls her big eyes and scoops up my menu before walking over to the touchscreen computer where she keys in all of her orders.

  I usually don’t deal with the juvenile attitudes of folk, but for her, I have to make an exception. She’s the woman who will have my baby. She’s my means to an end.

  Literally.

  She just doesn’t know it yet.

  I silence the alarm on my phone that goes off every day at 7:30 p.m. A reminder to take a mild antidepressant my therapist prescribed. I haven’t taken them in two weeks. Maybe if I had some water, I’d taken the one pill I put in my coat pocket this morning but I’m still waiting. Patience has never been one of my strong qualities. I was about to get up and get my own water before I saw Lo heading my way again. Finally.

  “Sorry,” she says holding a tray with water and the complimentary bread I never eat. “I had to cut up some lemons.”

  “Stop apologizing,” I tell her.

  She frowns. “Hunh?”

  “You heard me. I said, stop apologizing. Quit with the apologies and do your job.” I didn’t mean for it to come out like that. Actually, I ran it through my mind and it sounded a lot better in my head, but it is what it is. What’s said is said and either she’s with it or she ain’t.

  She doesn’t respond. She ain’t with it. I suppose she’s lumped me in with the other rude customers I’m sure she’s had tonight. Again, her problem. Not mine.

  She places the bread on the table and a glass of water along with a saucer of lemons – four slices.

  “I only asked for two lemon slices.”

  “Actually, you didn’t ask for anything. I brought what I thought you wanted, remember? Your usual.”

  “Yes, and you said two lemon slices which is my usual—not four.”

  “Instead of catching a ‘tude, why don’t you just keep four. Jeez. What’s the big deal?”

  “That’s not what I asked for, Lo. Take two off of the plate.”

  She’s irritated, but so am I. I want what I asked for. Nothing more. Nothing less. “Look, dude, I don’t have time for all this nitpicky crap. I’ve had a long day as you can see,” she says gesturing toward her stained shirt.

  I smile. She has some fight in her. I like to see the fire. The pissed-offness. Too bad she doesn’t know who she’s messing with.

  “Take two slices off of the plate,” I tell her again.

  Her thick, black eyebrows nearly slam together at my request. “Are you serious?”

  “Have I given you any indication I wasn’t? Take them off.”

  There she goes rolling her eyes again.

  “Fine!” she snaps, snatching two lemon slices then walks away squeezing them in her clenched fist, juice dripping onto the floor.

  I see her lips moving a mile a minute as she’s walking toward the manager. I imagine she’s complaining about me. The guy glances over here then tells her something before he begins in my direction.

  Rico is his name. I’ve spoken with him a few times before. Cool dude. I’m sure he remembers me. He came off as somewhat of a fan. Said he saw me do an interview on one of the news outlets.

  “Hey, Mr. St. Claire. How are you doing this evening, Sir?”

  “I’m well,” I respond. “What about yourself?”

  “Eh…busy running this place, man.”

  “Yeah. I see it’s a full house tonight.”

  “It always is on Wednesdays.”

  “I’ve noticed. Service has been a bit slow, but I’m sure Lo is doing the best she can,” I say.

  Rico sighs in a way that tells me he’s on the fence about her but trying to hang on. “I’m going to try to get more workers in here. My waitresses are pretty bogged down. I’m not complaining but this place has really taken off in the last few months.”

  “I’ve noticed the growth,” I tell him as I squeeze both slices of lemon in the glass of ice water.

  “Lo is doing the best she can,” he says, coming to her defense. “If you would like for me to send over another waitress—”

  “No,” I say, cutting him off quickly. “I want her.” Bad manners, smart mouth, slow service and all, I still want her.

  “Okay. If you have any problems, flag me down.”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  “No problem, Mr. St. Claire. Enjoy your dinner.”

  Lo heads my way with a tray. Not only does she bring the appetizer but the rest of my meal comes along with it.

  “Are you serious?” I ask. My eyes narrow automatically.

  “What now?”

  “Why bring the appetizer with the meal? Isn’t the whole point of an appetizer is to get it before the meal comes? Is that not what an appetizer is? Maybe I’m confused.”

  “You know what? You’re right. I screwed up. Okay. What do you want me to do?”

 
Her frustration doesn’t bother me. The frown on her face doesn’t bother me. Her hand-on-hips stance doesn’t bother me. What bothers me is incompetence and the fact that a simple waitressing job is enough to make her flustered. She’s going to need more heart than this if she’s going to be the mother of my child.

  “Sit down,” I tell her.

  “What?”

  “Sit. Down.”

  She frowns. “I can’t sit down. I’m working here.”

  “Barely.”

  She huffs, narrows her eyes to thin slits and says, “I’ve been insulted enough times today, thank you very much, and I’m not about to let you walk up in here and treat me like I’m less than, so, no, I’m not sitting. If you don’t want the food, just leave.”

  I clap while saying, “Way to stand up for yourself. And no, I’m not leaving. By the way, you still haven’t brought my wine. Can you bring that for me, please, or do I have to go to the bar and get it myself?”

  She blows an angry breath. Her eyes do a full loop. I didn’t want to do it to her, but I had to. I need wine with this meal. It’s the way I always have it and the way I always want it. I can’t have her messing up my routine.

  A few people from nearby tables have glanced my way, giving me mean looks. They’ve probably overheard my conversation with my waitress, but I’m beyond the stage in my life where I care about what people think of me. None of that matters. It’s all noise I tune out like the other noises in this place – the soft rock, white boys talking about getting trashed, women laughing too loud and glasses clanking together. All noise.

  I see Rico coming from the bar with a glass of wine. I hide a frown when I realize he’s bringing it to me. He places it on the table.

  “Where’s Lo?” I ask.

  “She’s not feeling so well. She decided to go home.” I glance at my watch. The time is a little after eight now. Her shift is over at nine. “Did she decide to go home or did you send her home?”

  Rico sighs. He looks sympathetic. “Listen, Mr. St. Claire—she’s not the best waitress I got—I realize that, but cut her some slack. She needs this job. Her car just broke down, and she takes the bus to get here and back home. Sometimes, she walks.”

  “You should fire her,” I tell him. I’m sure it’s crossed his mind a time or two.

  “Why would you say something like that?”

  “Because her waitressing skills are subpar. She’s not cut out for this.”

  “Yeah, well I don’t tell you who’s cut out to work at MJS Communications, so how are you qualified to tell me who can and can’t work here?”

  “You’re right. My apologies.”

  I stand, leave a hundred dollars on the table for the food and drink I didn’t touch and wish him a good evening.

  “Mr. St. Claire, I can get this all wrapped up for you if you’re leaving.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I don’t come here for the food,” I tell him. I head for the exit while sliding my hands into a pair of leather gloves. I pass a line of people who’re waiting for tables, then hit the chirp to unlock the Bentley. I jump in and drive to the nearest bus stop looking for Lo.

  The closest one is on Central Avenue beside the CVS and across the street from Dairy Queen. I pull up and see her. I hit the hazards and block the right lane of traffic, shifting the car into park. After rolling down the dark-tinted window so she can see inside the car, I yell, “Get in.”

  She folds her arms. Crosses her legs. Ignores me.

  “Lo, get in.”

  Cars are honking, people cussing me out because I’m blocking traffic. I’m unfazed. I have an objective and I won’t be easily swayed.

  “Lo, get—”

  “Leave me alone. I’d rather take the bus than be anywhere near you—you—you maniac.”

  I grin a little, amused by her word choice. I’ve been called many things but never a maniac.

  Horns are steadily honking. Tires screeching.

  “Lo, get in. It’s cold out there. You’re going to make me cause an accident.”

  “Why should I get in the car with you? You’re creepy—got those leather gloves on looking like a corporate hitman. I’ll take my chances with hypothermia and frostbite than a guy who throws tantrums over lemon slices.”

  She crosses her arms. Attempts to warm herself.

  Meanwhile, I’m still getting honked at and future baby mama thinks I’m a creepy maniac who throws tantrums. Over lemons.

  I get out of the car when I’m sure I won’t be plowed down by angry drivers and open the passenger side door. “Please, get in. I wasn’t trying to be a jerk back there and I know you left the bistro because of me. At least let me take you home.” I gesture for her to enter again. She’s staring at me like I’m a freak in a clown mask but she stands and gets inside. Surprises me.

  I close the door and hop in, press the button to turn off the hazard lights. Then I glance over at her as I drive away from the scene. She’s hugging her purse like she’s still cold.

  She doesn’t say a word to me.

  I don’t say a word to her.

  I begin the drive to her house. To kill the silence, I turn up the radio, bumping Major by Young Dolph. With every turn, I can imagine her growing more curious about how I know where she lives although she doesn’t say a word about it. I think she’s scared and questioning her decision to get into the car with me. I’d probably be scared, too, if I was her.

  I turn into the driveway at the small, gray brick house on Anderson Street in one of Charlotte’s transitioning neighborhoods. I shut off the car.

  “How do you know where I live?” she asks.

  I look over at her. She’s still clutching her purse. “I followed you home a few times,” I confess.

  “You followed me home?” she asks, her voice raised and rattled.

  “Yes. I followed you home.”

  “I knew something was off about you. You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?” With her eyes still on me, she reaches for the door handle but the door is locked. It’s dark inside my car and she has no idea how to unlock the doors in a Bentley.

  “If I was going to kill you, why would I bring you home?”

  “I don’t know—probably one of your sick fantasies. Let me out of this car,” she says, still frantically searching for the way out, yanking the handle.

  “Stop doing that.”

  “What do you want from me?” she asks, looking at me now.

  “First, I want you to calm down. I didn’t make you get into my car.”

  “You practically did. And you already knew where I lived, you just admitted to following me home and you think I’m supposed to be comfortable right now? Not to mention you were a jerk back there at the restaurant and now my head feels like it’s about to explode.”

  “I was a jerk to you because you’re not a good waitress.”

  “And you continue to insult me. Unlock this flippin’ door.”

  “Will you calm down? You act as if you don’t know you’re lacking in waitressing skills. You know. It hurts when someone tells you the truth, though, huh?”

  “What do you want from me?” she asks.

  “I want a baby.”

  Her face contorts. “You—you want a baby?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why are you telling me that?”

  “Why do you think I’m telling you?”

  “I don’t know. What I do know is, you need to unlock this door.”

  “Okay, well since you refuse to read between the lines, I’ll spell it out for you. I’m telling you because I want you to have my baby.”

  She laughs but the laughter soon fades when she realizes I’m serious. “You—you’re for real.”

  “I am. I want a baby and I want you to have it for me. Think it over.” I hit the unlock button to let her out of the car. “I’ll expect a decision when I’m back at the restaurant on Friday.”

  She scoffs. “Don’t bother. The answer is no. Are you insane?”

  “No. I�
�m not insane, creepy, I’m not a maniac and I don’t throw tantrums. I’m a man who has the power to change your life and you have the power to change mine but only by giving me a child.”

  “I’ll repeat it since you obviously didn’t hear me the first time. The answer is no.”

  She opens the door, slams it shut and walks away. She thinks she’s calling the shots. I’m not surprised. I was expecting this kind of reaction from her. She’ll realize she’s not the one in charge when I show up at Bistro Le Bon on Friday. Until then, I’ll let her think she’s won. This is far from being over.

  Chapter Two

  Shiloh

  My frantic heart palpitations have yet to cease after being held hostage and taken for a fool by my psycho customer. I’m home now, but my heart still races from the way he looked at me. Stared at me. It’s like he saw right through me with those enchanting, light green eyes that I’m sure, if I stared at long enough, could hypnotize me into doing almost anything.

  That’s probably how he got most women hooked. Those eyes.

  Jerk.

  It’s my fault for getting in the car with him, but at least he brought me home, saving me from a bus ride. I wouldn’t be home right now if I’d taken public transportation, but next time, I’ll just have to tough it out because there are certain things, as a woman, you’re not supposed to do – like accepting a ride from an exceptionally good-looking stranger at a bus stop.

  Technically, he’s not a stranger. I’ve waited on him countless times at the bistro. Spilled water on him, too, but I never knew how rude he was until today. Spill water on the man and he looks at you with a smirk. Serve him too many lemon wedges and he has a conniption fit. Go figure. I never imagined a man who looked as good as him would be so unkind and ill-mannered. I don’t know why I equated good looks to an equal set of manners, but now I know for a fact that the two do not go hand in hand.

  And what was all the baby talk about? He said he wanted me to have his baby…