Georgie, All Along (57)
My lips had still been tingling from the bristles of his beard.
This morning, the tingling has worn off at least, but my mind is no less preoccupied, and since it’s my first breakfast shift at The Shoreline, the distraction is a liability. For the first hour, things had been quiet—only a few early risers, probably guests who were getting ready to check out before the weekend. But then things picked up, and since there’s only three of us serving, I’ve been scrambling. Twice I’ve taken orders to the wrong table, and once I nearly poured fresh coffee into a water glass. Each time I’ve made an error, I’ve apologized profusely but then also thought about how Levi Fanning hasn’t apologized at all.
If all that wasn’t bad enough, I’ve also got an audience.
“Georgie!” Bel calls from a table by one of the massive picture windows, waving me over enthusiastically. She looks good, her color fully back and some of the worry eased from her face now that Harry’s home. They’ve both taken the day off so they can go to Bel’s doctor for another follow-up later, but what Bel doesn’t know is that Harry’s also planned for her to have one of those relaxing pregnancy massages here at the spa before they go. Since he is a person who actually puts his phone to meaningful use—unlike some other men I know—he texted me yesterday to get help setting up an appointment.
“Hey,” I say to them both, hoping I don’t sound breathless with all the effort I’ve been putting into not messing up any more orders. “Everything good over here?”
Bel points at the tiny jar of artisanal jam that came with her scone. “Georgie,” she repeats, lowering her voice into an excited whisper. “Everything here is so fancy!”
Since I know Bel, I know exactly what she means with this excitement over a tiny fancy jam jar. It isn’t as though she’s never seen anything like this, what with the circles she’s moved in for the last decade, but it’s definitely that she hasn’t ever seen it around here. For all that The Shoreline was an upscale Iverley institution when we were growing up, it’s even more so now, and Bel’s taking it with the same kind of Darentville-kid surprise that I’d felt when I’d first seen Ernie Nickel’s new front window.
“I know, right?” I say, topping up Harry’s coffee in his actual coffee mug.
“Harry,” she says, nudging his hand. “This reminds me of . . . what was that place we went to for our anniversary two years ago?”
He quirks a brow, tilts his head to the side.
“You know, the place with the”—she waves a hand at her scone—“with the pastries? I can’t think of it, you know how my brain is with this pregnancy.”
Harry nods and looks around, and I’m pretty sure he either does not remember the place with the pastries or he does not think The Shoreline is similar. Still, he says, “I can see it,” because he is wonderful. He sends text messages and also pretends to remember anniversary dates from two years ago, and I bet he would never leave you alone with your chaos agent parents ten minutes after absolutely rocking your world.
“We should have come here sooner, babe,” she says. “It’s so nice!”
“It’s good for dinner, too,” I say, because I am pretty much auto-in with anything Bel is trying to get excited about; I had a lot of practice at this during the days I stayed with her. After Harry left on Monday morning, I could tell she was still rattled, even though she was doing her level best to hide it by going down various Pinterest rabbit holes. That afternoon we spent three hours looking for first birthday party ideas, and I made a very strong case for serving something called “baby Bundts” even though I don’t even know if one-year-olds are allowed to have cake.
“You can put it in the date night rotation once you’re comfortable leaving the baby with a sitter. Good food, close to home,” I add, in the same way I argued for the improved hygiene prospects of individual Bundt cakes at a birthday party that will not take place for another thirteen and a half months.
“Yes!” She clasps her hands in front of her chest, looking thrilled. “Date nights!”
I look around the dining room, making sure I’m not slacking on the job. The crowd’s thinned out considerably, my remaining tables almost all wrapped up.
“Plus,” Bel says to Harry, “this will be a way for us to meet new people. You said more locals come here now, right, Georgie?”
“Yeah, pretty much an even mix, according to Olivia.”
“Oh, is she around today?” Bel says.
“I don’t think so.” That’s a lie, but I don’t want to mess up the massage surprise. “I don’t think she comes in this early—”
“Well, someone does,” Bel not-really whispers, something teasing and significant in her voice, and I don’t even have to turn around to know who she means. If I’d done the smart thing and actually told Bel about the situation with Levi, there’s no way she’d still be banging this drum about Evan. But since I have not done the smart thing, here I am about to be face-to-face with my sort-off boss while my best friend probably plans a Pinterest board for our wedding.
“Annabel,” Evan says, coming to stand beside me, easy as can be, his perfect smile perfectly in place. He would look better with a beard, not that it’s any of my business. “I’m glad you made it in.”