Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 25839 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25839 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
“M-kay. Love you, sis.”
I end our call, scoop up all the random shit that fell out of my bag onto the passenger’s side floor, then swing open the squeaky door on my Bug.
The front of Amalfi’s glows with candlelight through the sidewalk-to-roof front windows.
I’ve had my eye on this place for months, with its four-and-a-half-star Yelp rating and recent feature in the Metro Times. It’s an Italian-Greek fusion, apparently the owner-chef’s heritage. A woman, no less, and I’m more than ready to infuse myself with whatever wonders await me inside.
My wallet prevents regular indulgence of my foodie soul, but my Thursday night dates have helped the cause.
The early summer air is still as I approach the door, my smoothed and tucked dark bun at the nape of my neck, appreciating the unusual low humidity for this time of year in South Carolina.
As I nod and pass the tight-lipped hostess, pointing toward the bar, I envision being greeted as a famous restaurant critic and food blogger. YouTube, Insta…maybe even my own show. That was the dream after college. But instead of taking the risk, I went the safe route with Dad’s encouragement, and the corporate world is just as soul crushing as I imagined.
Dreams don’t pay the bills, young lady. Dreams don’t pay the bills.
I work my way down the wall toward the bar area, wobbling slightly on my knock-off Jimmy Choos, as instrumental pop music drifts down from the ceiling speakers.
The tinkling of wine glasses and the kind of low conversation and laughter reserved for restaurants with tasting menus and sommeliers wraps around me as impossibly wonderful savory scents dance on the air.
As I lift my behind onto a slick blonde wooden barstool, a man who reminds me of my Uncle Sylvester with a ruddy complexion and a droopy left eye wipes down the counter before heading my way with a smile.
“What can I get you?”
“A Tom Collins,” I say, my spine stick straight since the girdle of the dress doesn’t allow for even the slightest slouch.
Deep carving on the antique bar contrasts with the otherwise contemporary white and cream simple décor and modern furnishings. Most of the tables in the bar and the restaurant are full, which is a good sign as far as food quality goes.
The lines of booze bottles against the mirror are subtly lit from below. A Billy Joel knock off plays the piano in the corner with an oversized brandy snifter filled with dollar bills sitting on top.
“Tom Collins?” The bartender fiddles with the toothpick in the corner of his mouth, his black bow tie twitching under his Adam’s Apple as he speaks. “Been a while since I had anyone order one of those. Very retro.”
I smile and shrug, plopping my purse on the bar stool next to me. “I’m a retro sort of gal, I guess.”
I cross my legs and tug at the hem of my dress in an attempt to cover my knees. It’s a habit ingrained in me over the years to hide the scars that run down the front and back of my thigh from the four surgeries I endured before the age of five to fix my left leg, which was shorter than my right.
All I remember was my dad being next to me, offering popsicles, and the pain. The seemingly endless, blinding pain. When I’m tired or overexerted, I still limp.
The Uncle Sylvester lookalike winks, works a few bottles behind the bar, then slides a glass filled to the brim with light amber liquid on a paper napkin my way. “Wanna open a tab?”
He meets my eyes with the question, my fingers looping around the cool vessel, but before I answer, there’s a flash of light from my right.
Jim-in-ee Cricket.
It’s like a giant heavenly spotlight focuses on him. I vaguely notice another guy coming from a dark back hallway, and a woman in a chef’s jacket smiling and giving him a hug, but they’re like extras in the movie that stars him.
And what a him he is.
Eyes as blue as a Caribbean tide pool draw my focus to a face that’s a heady cocktail of right angles and broody tension. A basketful of invisible bunnies scamper all around my soft belly before joining together to drum like Thumper below my belly button.
At first, this dark haired Zeus looked angry, but as soon as we locked eyes, he sort of tripped, then the slightest curve graced the corners of his magnificent lips.
My eyes nibble down his chest, admiring the hint of dark hair peeking out from his open shirt collar which matches the black fabric of his suit. With a shaky breath, I continue my downward eye fuck, noting his suit pants have that perfect break at the front of his ankles. The cuffs resting on impossibly shiny black shoes.
God. Why are perfectly-tailored suits so damn sexy?