Fight or Flight(17)

“They’re not doing me a kindness. They’re doing their bloody job.”

“True. So say you got a shitty waitress or crappy flight attendant … you’re right. You shouldn’t thank someone when they’re doing a shitty job. But none of these people today have been doing a shitty job. It’s just good manners to thank them.”

“Why does it bug you so much?”

“It’s common courtesy. I know when I spend weeks, sometimes months designing a space or a house, that it feels amazing when the client thanks me. And it feels horrible when they don’t say anything. You know they like it because they’ve called a national magazine to have them photograph it or you see them plastering it all over their social media showing it off. But they never said thank you or good job.

“Being underappreciated is like being a ghost. They know once upon a time you were there, that you made a mark, but they already stopped caring before you even said good-bye. That’s shitty. And maybe being a flight attendant isn’t making someone’s home or office a place they love to spend time in, and it’s not making sure a tech company stays on the right path upward financially … but it’s making sure someone who is afraid of flying, or is tired and grieving, has a good flight at least. That they didn’t have to put up with obnoxious service. The same with Emily tonight. She got our food out to us and she did it with a smile. And we don’t know what kind of day Emily is having. If those assholes over there have been giving her a hard time.

“So maybe a please or a thank you doesn’t seem much to you. But I’m pretty sure that every time I say thank you to Emily—including the thank you I’ll leave in my twenty percent tip—it helps her deal better with the assholes who were rude to her while she stands on her feet for a twelve-hour shift in the four-inch heels her boss insists she wear.”

I drew in a breath after my rant and sat back in my chair, waiting for his sarcastic reply. It didn’t come. Instead, he just stared at me, his expression inscrutable.

“What?”

His answer was to look at the menu. “Are you getting dessert?”

Would it have been wrong of me to pour my champagne over him?

Yes, yes, it would have. That didn’t mean I didn’t feel the urge. I sighed and looked over the menu. “I am.”

We didn’t speak as we waited for Emily to return. “Dessert?”

“I’ll have the chocolate fudge cake.”

“Whipped cream or ice cream?”

“Ice cream, please.”

“Great.” She turned to Caleb.

He shook his head and handed her the menu. “Nothing for me.”

As Emily walked away, I frowned at my companion. There was a possibility if I stuck around him any longer I was going to form permanent wrinkles between my brows. “I thought you were eating dessert. I wouldn’t have ordered if you weren’t.”

“Why not? Frankly, it’s refreshing that you eat steak and chocolate cake.”

“I don’t normally. It’s a treat.”

“Because you’re grieving and tired?”

Stunned that he’d picked up on that and that he was curious enough to ask, I attempted to shrug it off. “I’m not drunk enough to talk about that.”

“Fair enough. But I’ll still wait with you while you have your dessert.”

“Well, as begrudgingly as it is given, I’m grateful.” I snorted. “I’m looking forward to that damn cake.”

This time there was no mistaking the male appreciation in those spectacular eyes. “Aye. Me too.”

He was obviously referring to my reaction to eating good food. I flushed and hoped he attributed it to a champagne blush. But if that cocky smirk of his was anything to go by, he didn’t.

Oh boy.





Six


Somehow after cake we still hadn’t left the table. After we’d paid for dinner (separately!), Caleb said he needed another drink. When I stood up from the booth to leave, he’d put a hand on my lower back and led me to the bar.

I was so hopped up on sugar and bubbles that I followed, completely bemused.

An hour later I was still sitting at the bar with this obnoxious Scotsman I didn’t like very much, sharing my wisdom about life in general and teetering over the edge into drunk. I was perfectly aware of my surroundings, but all the snark and defensiveness had leaked out of me as my alcohol consumption increased. Suddenly, I didn’t hate Caleb. We were just different people, and just because you didn’t agree with someone on everything didn’t mean he was a bad person. Caleb had sat with me during dinner to stop other men from harassing me, which was very thoughtful, I thought.

“It was thoughtful, Caleb,” I found myself saying.

He smiled at me over the rim of his third glass of whiskey, and I felt that now familiar flutter in my stomach. God, he was handsome! “What was, babe?”

And being called “babe” by him wasn’t so bad. When Harper called me “babe,” I found it cute. I felt something a little different when Caleb called me “babe.” “Sitting with me. Acting as a barrier between me and those awful men. That was thoughtful. You can say it was you owing me, but it was still thoughtful.”

“I thought you didn’t need me tae rescue you?”