Great. Nothing like feeling like a drag queen with a bad tuck on the night you’re about to propose to your girlfriend.
Who is looking at you like you belong on top of her old Turdmobile.
I take her hand and put it back. “There. Happy?” My fake grin isn’t helping.
“Declan, what is going on?” she asks suspiciously. “You don’t look well, you seem nervous, and you don’t want me to be intimate with you.” She swallows, hard, then sits up straight and tall. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
“Like what?” Man, this wine is good. I think I’ll buy the vineyard. Right now. I’ll grab a helicopter and go to Napa. Immediately.
“Are you...unhappy?”
Just then, the server appears, full of hope and promise and a melodic recitation of the chef’s specials. I swear it’s a performance worth of a poetry slam, in verse. Is that iambic pentameter I hear? A bit of Olde English thrown in for good measure?
Shannon listens politely and orders a salad and fish.
Oh, shit.
I order a thick porterhouse and as the server leaves, ready myself to grovel.
“Can we start over?” I ask just as Shannon stands. “Where are you going?” I ask. Have I blown it so badly she’s leaving? And how did I mess this up? One small issue and another small issue and suddenly she’s hurt and pissed. It’s like—
Like when I dumped her.
Oh, man.
“Shannon, please come back. Let me explain. I’m just really overwhelmed and once you know everything you’ll understand.”
I’m not doing myself any favors with my word choices. That sounded like my dad trying to explain why Mistress #1 got Mistress #2’s roses and note.
She glares. “I need to go check the bathrooms.” Before she leaves she grabs her wine glass and guzzles it like a hockey player mainlining electrolytes between plays.
I watch her receding form as it turns down a white hallway, disappearing like my hope for a perfect proposal.
Chandra walks past me and quietly says, “I hope everything is going as planned, Mr. McCormick.”
“Not quite,” I reply through gritted teeth. I hand her the ring as discreetly as possible. I have to give her credit; she palms it like a pickpocket from “Oliver Twist”, so smooth it’s as if we never touched.
“Our staff is on it. After your meal we will have the tiramisu and Champagne ready. The string quartet should arrive any minute and will come out as scheduled.”
Cheesy, right? I know. But that’s how this works.
“Thank you,” I say as she nods and disappears, gliding away.
Shannon’s on her way back, a too-calm look on her face.
“What was that about?” she asks me as I stand and hold her chair for her, pushing her in.
“Nothing. Just checking to see if everything is fine,” I explain.
“Fine,” she says. There’s a bite to her words. I put my hand on her knee and while she stiffens, she doesn’t move.
“Shannon, can we hit the rewind button? I wasn’t myself when we arrived, and I’m really looking forward to this evening.”
“Since when do you look forward to a mystery shop?”
Oops.
“Since it means having hours alone with you.”
Her face softens, eyes turning dreamy. “Really?”
“Always.”
Bzzz.
My chest vibrates, the effect like a defibrillator, making me jump. I pull out my phone.
Grace.
I stand and hold one finger up to Shannon, who gives me a withering look, the sweet, loving smile fading fast.
“This is not a good time,” I grunt into the phone.
“I know, Declan, and I am so, so sorry, but some guy named Giuseppe keeps calling. Says he needs to talk to you.”
Chandra walks by and gives me a surreptitious thumbs’ up. “Oh, him. It’s fine, Grace. I don’t need to talk to him. Everything’s under control.”
“You sure? Because he’s calling from the restaurant where you’re proposing and he’s insisting it’s important.”
What could a guy stuck at home with chicken pox need to tell me? “It’s all good. No worries.”
“Okay. I’ll pass on the message. And Declan?”
“Yes?”
“You picked a great one.”
“Thanks.”
“And happy birthday. How cute that you picked the same day. Smart move. This will make it hard to forget this day.”
I try to process a reply, but Grace is off the phone before I can. I’d completely forgotten about my birthday in the planning for this proposal.
Our salads were delivered in those handful of seconds I was on the phone, and Shannon is daintily taking bites that make her look disturbingly like Jessica Coffin.
“You need to leave?” she asks in a resigned tone.
“No.” I sit back down and stuff lettuce in my mouth. It might as well be embalming fluid.
She gives me a weak smile. “Good.” As she pulls her phone out of her purse, Chandra comes over to the table, making Shannon freeze. I know she’s going for her app, hoping to answer some questions from this pseudo mystery shop.
“I hope the food is pleasant?” Chandra asks.
“Great Romaine,” I mutter. “The best. Ever.”
Shannon’s glare could perform Lasik surgery on me from two hundred feet.
Chandra nods and walks over to another table, working the room.
“I do not like that woman,” Shannon says, stabbing a tomato viciously like it’s Chandra’s eyeball.
Entrees appear, freshly-ground pepper is offered, and soon we’re in peace, Shannon tapping away on a screen as her fish becomes a smelly piece of rubber. My steak tastes like I’m nibbling on someone’s calf, and my stomach is doing the two-step.