Page 6 of Spencer's Satisfaction
“Chance,” Spencer’s rebuke to his friend is soft but firm, “don’t tease the poor kid.” He turns those gray-tinted, soulful eyes back on me. “You’ve got a damn good ear.”
“I’m almost thirty,” the bizarre defense spills from my lips before anything else can and I cringe. “I mean, uh, thanks.”
Smooth, Tones. Real smooth. Just when you’d managed to act normal until now.
Feeling strained silence descending, I hold up my notepad and throw a thumb over my shoulder. “I should get your order in.” Then I scurry away before I can further humiliate myself.
It’s not until I’m pegging the paper up on the line that it hits me: by acknowledging that I’m a fan of Spencer Rhodes, I’ve essentially just let those two complete strangers in on my super secret interests. Because Rhodes’ narration is niche. Like, he only narrates gay romance, and mostly kinky or taboo stuff at that. And, while I’m sure he doesn’t have a problem with it, it might only be a paycheck to him…whereas here I am, listening so much that I can pick his voice out of a freaking lineup after only five seconds.
God, he must think I’m a nerdy, horny little loser.
…But would he be wrong?
“Jenny quit,” Gerald tells me just as I’m turning to head back into the diner proper. It startles me out of my thoughts immediately.
“Wait…what?”
“Jenny quit,” he repeats.
Frowning, I ask, “When?”
He shrugs, slinging burgers onto the grill while he plates up a stack of pancakes for one of the large group’s orders. For all my complaints against my greasy bigot of a boss, I have to admit that his multi-tasking skills are second to none. “When she came back from her extended bathroom break.”
I can feel my heart sinking into my stomach. “So…she’s gone?” My eyes dart to the hook next to the door where, sure enough, there’s an apron hanging on the empty hook I’d left behind when I started my shift. “God damn it.”
Gerald grunts his agreement.
I glance at the clock above the swinging doors that lead to the front of house and start calculating how long it will be before Betsy’s back from her break.
“These are good to go out,” Gerald says, gesturing to four plates under the heat lamp. “I’ll have the next round ready in two minutes.”
Stifling a sigh, I nod and gather the plates in the practiced balancing act I’ve perfected over the years, using my forearm to help me carry the whole lot. I back out of the kitchen, opening the doors with my butt and turn to move out of their way before they swing shut. Then I hurry the first round of meals over to their respective diners and return to the service window before Gerald can ding the bell.
I make a game of getting back to him for each round until all the diners in the first group have their meals, and Betsy returns just as Gerald is dishing up the burger and pie for Spencer’s table.
Spencer.
My heart starts doing a tap-dance in my chest again. In all the rush of the last fifteen minutes, I’d been able to forget my soul searing embarrassment. But it hits me with full force again now.
“Hey, Bets, can you take these plates to table nine?” I ask her, already handing the orders off before she can actually agree. “I’ve just gotta…” I gesture with my head towards the back of house, implying an imaginary need for the facilities.
“Sure thing,” she agrees sweetly, as I knew she would, then turns to do exactly that while I hustle towards the bathroom out back. I hide in a stall and sink down on the closed lid of the toilet, bracing my elbows on my thighs as I cradle my head and focus on calming my breathing.
I tell myself that Spencer Rhodes has probably forgotten all about me and my fanboy moment, and I do my best to believe that.
After leaving the stall, I wash my hands and face at the sink and dab my skin dry with a paper towel, take one last fortifying breath and open the door to leave the men’s room…only to find the very object of my obsessive thoughts standing on the other side.
He’s leaning against the wall of the narrow hallway across from the door and I swallow reflexively as I take a proper look at him. He’s tall and lean, wearing dark jeans that hug his legs and a loose black polo shirt. His face is, as I observed earlier, handsome. Long and angular, but his features are open and inviting. His lips are plump and rosy, and I have a fleeting desire to rise up on my toes and taste them.
That sort of impulse is new for me. Normally, I need to mentally brace myself for that sort of contact, work myself up into feeling comfortable enough to kiss someone I don’t know well. But not Spencer. Maybe it’s that I almost feel like I do know him? Even if from a distance, just as a fan. He doesn’t feel like a stranger, even though he is.
But then it clicks that he’s not waiting for a stall. We have three, and the other two are not currently occupied. So, if he’s not waiting for a stall, and there’s nobody else in there, he’s waiting…for me?
“Uh…” Is the incredibly coherent thought I manage to get out past my suddenly dry mouth.
He smiles at me, bringing out those dimples again. “Sorry to startle you,” he says, inclining his head. “I’m not the type to stalk guys to the bathroom, but I…well, I got the impression you’d prefer the privacy while I asked for your number.”
“Uh…” I understand the words he’s saying, of course, but I can’t quite process them. Ask for my number? Why would he ask for my number?
