by Marta Brown
Publication Date: May 28th, 2013
“Good afternoon and welcome to the Field House Grille. May I start you two off with drinks or an appetizer today?” The waiter’s voice startles me out of my conspiracy theories, and I resume perusing my menu.
“Yes, I’ll have a long island ice tea and a white wine spritzer for the lady.” Gregory orders with confidence. He’s only a year shy of the legal drinking age so he may pass as old enough to get served, but it’s obvious I’m not old enough to drink yet. “And then we’ll have an order of the calamari to start and for our entrees she’ll have the sea bass, and I’ll have the filet.” He shuts his menu and hands it back to the waiter with bravado.
“I’ll actually have a bottle of San Pellegrino please,” I say, staring at my menu, trying to avoid the embarrassment of being carded and then denied, or worse, my parents finding out I tried to order an alcoholic drink, at the club no less. “And what salad would you recommend?” I start to ask, but the words get caught in my throat when I finally look up and see the waiter.
He. Is. Gorgeous.
“Well…our house mixed salad is very popular. It’s locally grown organic and is fresh picked daily. It comes with a light raspberry vinaigrette dressing that can be tossed on or left on the side,” he says, holding my gaze.
“Oh. Yes. That sounds… yummy.” The words come out all breathy, and I’m immediately humiliated at the way I must have sounded.
Yummy. Breathy. Seriously, Ashley?
“Then on the side, miss?” the waiter asks, a faint smile playing on his lips.
“Yes, thank you,” I say, feeling my face flush with warmth.
Apparently Gregory Chase isn’t the only boy in town who can make a girl blush, and by the daggers Gregory’s shooting the poor guy with his eyes, he knows it too.
Gregory clears his throat and pulls the attention of the waiter back on him. “Fine. We’ll have one house salad with dressing on the side and an order of calamari to start.” Then with a dismissive flick of his hand, “Now, go fetch our drinks.”
Go fetch our drinks? Is he serious? How can he think it’s okay to speak to someone that way? But before I can say anything the cute waiter lets out an amused laugh that surprises me.
“I’m sorry sir, but I’m gonna have to see an ID first.” The waiter looks not at all sorry to ask, which makes me have to hide a smile.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Gregory starts. “I left it in the men’s locker room,” he explains, but his confidence is shaken. No one ever challenges Gregory.
“I’m sorry sir, but without a valid ID I’m not gonna be able to serve you, but I’ll be happy to wait here while you go and get it.” The waiter gives Greg a fake smile and then me a real one. He clearly is enjoying himself.
It’s evident Greg’s not going to get his way, so he finally concedes, but without an ounce of grace. “How about you take your eyes off my date, and go do your job.” He levels the waiter with his eyes. “And just bring me a damn coke while you’re at it.”
“Will do, sir,” the waiter says with artificial politeness, giving Gregory an almost imperceptible bow before turning around and leaving.
This time, I’m the one who gets caught watching one of the waitstaff walk away.