Page 47 of Sort of Seeing Someone

“I appreciate the offer, but this stuff just isn’t for me.”

“I’m not asking you to be part of a pyramid scheme. It’s a free candle. You can give it to your girlfriend,” I insist, reminding him of the benign nature of the bag’s contents.

“I don’t like candles. They’re a fire hazard. And I don’t have a girlfriend.”

Considering he’s a handsome version of a wet blanket, I’m not shocked by his single status.

“Do I need to do anything with this table? Move it anywhere? Break it down?” I ask him.

“No, my banquets team will handle that. You’re officially off the clock, Ms. Miller. Thank you for your service.”

He salutes me. Is he mocking me? Or was that sort of adorable?

“Great. Because I need to sit down,” I lament. “Standing for three straight hours in combat boots isn’t for the weak.”

“You haven’t sat down in the last three hours?”

“Do you see a chair anywhere?” I say with a hint of sass as I gesture to my set up.

“Have you eaten? Drank anything?”

I shake my head no. I want to remind him that I’ve been,you know,busy helping the other forty-nine people who expressed genuine interest in my presence here tonight.

“Let me help you get a meal.”

“Nice of you to suddenly care about whetherthe witchhas had herbrewtoday, but I can fend for myself. I’ll get room service.”

“In-room dining is done for the evening. And—”

He takes a hard swallow and looks away for just a moment before returning to our conversation.

“—I owe you a bit of an apology. You’re right. The way I spoke to you earlier was rude. Not to mention, The Brockmeier could dismiss me from this project if Mr. Macnider found out I disrespected his guest of honor and I’m trying to save up for a house. So, allow me to make it up to you. Food is the way to everyone’s heart in America, isn’t it?”

I ponder the question.

“You’re lucky I’m starving.”

“Follow me,” he says, waving me on.

I walk behind Ollie through the very passageway he told me my table was blocking when I first got there to set up. We travel through the fire door and down a back access stairwell that’s lit with harsh fluorescent bulbs.Once out of the stairwell of doom, we pop out on the main floor right in the middle of the hotel bar—Red’s.

“Sorry, Revere closes at nine,” Ollie says of the hotels’ Michelin-starred restaurant.

“That’s okay, I wasn’t exactly planning on eating a three-course meal.”

“So elevated bar food will suffice?”

“I’m not familiar with that cuisine, but I see someone eating French fries over there, which is good enough for me.”

“Perfect.”

Ollie pulls out a bar stool from under the counter and invites me to take a seat.

As an engineer, I know Ollie’s not exactly a front-of-the-house face (although with those eyes and that hairline, he really should be), but he’s quickly changed his tune with me and is nailing this hospitality thing. First a shortcut that gets me in close proximity to a hard-earned glass ofsauvignon blanc in record time, then using terms I’ve never heard of to describe fried food, and now, cordially inviting me to sit at hotel bar for a complimentary late-night meal. I feel special, albeit underdressed and overexcited about the fact I see something called “a fork and knife burrito” on the menu.

“I’ll have this, please,” I say, pointing to the item and showing the bartender. “Along with a side of fries.”

“A burrito and French fries?” Ollie asks. “In all my thirty years, I haven’t seen anyone order those two things together. Is that some sort ofAmerican thing?”

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