Reluctantly Yours(11)
Forget about Barrett, I need to focus on the task at hand. There’s got to be a way out of this. It’s like getting a speeding ticket for the first time, they have to let you off with a warning, right? I’ve never had a speeding ticket, but I would hope that a clean record would allow me a pass for the first offense. I pause to put on my friendliest smile.
“I apologize for not confirming, but I’m here early to set up so if you could just add me back to the reservation that would be great.”
Without lifting her head, the hostess flicks her eyes up to me.
“I’m sorry, there was a waitlist for the space. We’ve already confirmed the next party on the list.”
“What?” I drop my gaze to the ground, where it feels like the floor has dropped out from underneath me. “You’re saying the space I reserved for the bachelorette party I’m throwing for my childhood friend, which starts in one hour and includes sixteen attendees, most of whom flew in specifically for this event, is no longer available?!”
“Sorry.” Her tone is bored and she caps it off with a shrug. I swear I can hear her mentally add ‘not sorry.’ It’s no big deal to her that my reservation was stolen from me on a technicality. The action makes me want to reach across the stand and strangle her with the ribbons of the twenty balloons I’m clutching. Instead, I try a new tactic.
“Listen, I’m JoAnna St. Clair’s assistant, is there anything you can do?”
“Who?” She looks at me confused.
“JoAnna St. Clair,” I say slower, as if that will trigger her understanding. “She’s the publisher at St. Clair Press.”
Her blank stare makes me shift on my feet.
I realize that while JoAnna is a household name in the book and publishing world, this twenty-something hostess has no idea who she is. Even if JoAnna’s name were to have influence here, I feel bad that I’m using it. She’s at the airport right now. She’ll be on a plane to LA in less than thirty minutes. That’s a reservation I did confirm this week. I shake my head.
“Oh, wait!” She snaps her fingers and I feel a glimmer of hope. “I know that name. She’s got a son. He’s gorgeous and rich. One of the youngest billionaires in the world. Barrett, right?”
I cluck my tongue. “Right.”
“Is he going to be here?” she asks.
“At my friend’s bachelorette party?” I ask.
She nods excitedly.
It’s Friday night, yet I imagine Barrett is holed up in his barren office, performing his nightly ritual of counting his gold coins by lamp light. A modern-day Ebenezer Scrooge.
Except he’s not exactly stingy with his money. He did donate a million dollars to the Books 4 Kids campaign. And I’m aware of all the other philanthropy he and SCM participates in, but that doesn’t mean he’s pleasant to be around. All that money and generosity can’t make up for his abysmal personality. His ever-present scowl and contemptuous attitude.
But, who knows? Maybe he and Tessa Green hit it off yesterday and are having a romantic second date tonight. Either way, he’s not making an appearance.
“No,” I say.
Her smile drops. “We’re completely booked. You could try the bar; it’s standing room only.”
I glance over at the bar area. It’s got a fun atmosphere, but there’s no way the party would fit in the space even if there were no other patrons. My stomach drops. I’m normally organized, details are my jam. This can’t be happening.
I take a breath. I’ve never missed a confirmation, whether it be for a travel itinerary, an important meeting or a dinner reservation. I’m here now, shouldn’t that count for something? I’m about to argue this point when the hostess speaks again.
“I need you to move your cake.” She purses her lips as she drops her eyes to the white cake box with a clear window resting on her stand before pulling two menus from underneath. Before I can cling to her leg and beg her to help me, she’s leaving, guiding the couple behind me, who are in their sixties and have been staring wide-eyed at said cake, toward their table.
The cake is in the shape of a man’s chest, his pecs and abs are chiseled to buttercream perfection while a fondant penis juts upward to his belly button, a clear creamy substance spills from the crown and spells out ‘Here cums the bride’ across his abdominals.
I thought it was hilarious when I picked it out. It’s not my fault that this massive man cake is too large for the bakery’s traditional cake boxes, leaving this clear box the only option. They should have warned me when I ordered it. Maybe suggested they shave a few inches off of the giant cock so that it could fit in a proper box. One that didn’t display its contents to everyone within a five-foot viewing radius.
In my hurry to get to the restaurant, I didn’t have time to tape a piece of paper over it. I figured once I got it here and set up in the private room that the cake would be a non-issue. Now, the massive penis on the cake I’m holding is the least of my problems.
I maneuver the bag of party supplies in my right hand so I can move the cake box off of the host stand, then set everything down on the deep-set windowsill. I need to think. There has to be a solution here. Then, I remember all the effort it took to find a location and make the reservation. The reasons that I booked the restaurant in the first place.