Page 27 of The Holy Grail
Chapter 6
Malcom fucking Hodge
He wasn’t coming.
Jules glanced at her watch again as the waiter took away her barely touched appetizer. It was 8:15 p.m. on Friday and she’d arrived at Le Trésor forty-five minutes earlier—as promised—and accepted the fact Malcom wasn’t going to be joining her.
She shouldn’t have been surprised, but she was. She’d gone to great effort to look better than she ever had, choosing to wear a dress that would hopefully make it difficult for him to stay mad at her. It was a beautiful ice-blue color, with a halter-style top that crisscrossed in the front, leaving a nice cut-out between her breasts, and tying around her neck in a sweet bow, which was on full display because she’d put her hair up in a high bun (with the help of a YouTube tutorial). It was completely backless, with a flared skirt that swished when she walked, and she’d paired it with strappy, black heels.
She’d gone full smoky eye make-up, countering it with light blush and a nude lipstick, and had even painted her toenails and fingernails a soft, neutral pink. Her jewelry was also understated—a pair of diamond-stud earrings she’d gotten from her parents when she graduated college a million years ago, a silver Anne Klein watch, and her favorite chunky ring on her left middle finger, which looked like an unfolding flower.
She was dressed to kill … and she was obviously being stood up.
Malcom wasn’t stuck in traffic, like she’d told herself when he was fifteen minutes late, nor was he changing a tire on the side of the road, or gotten in a car accident, when thirty minutes had come and gone.
It was crushing, to say the least, and she drained her glass of wine, then poured herself another, because alcohol was the only thing that was going to get her through this meal. Jules knew she could probably leave at any time, because even though she’d told him she would stay for the entire dinner, even if he stood her up, he wouldn’t know if she left. However, she was determined to stay, not only because she deserved to suffer through the entirety of it alone, but also because she wasn’t going to be a quitter, either.
Jules forced herself to smile at the waiter when he brought her second and third courses, both of which she picked at, even though they were delicious, and continued to lay waste to the bottle of wine. By the time her chocolate soufflé was served, she was feeling a little inebriated and depressed, and wasn’t looking forward to walking out of the restaurant alone, past all the tables of people who would know she’d obviously been stood up, because no one ate at an expensive French restaurant by themselves, dressed to the nines, did they?
She didn’t even have a book with her, to make it look like she was purposely eating by herself.
The soufflé turned out to be too delicious to only pick at, and she ended up eating almost half of it. When the waiter cleared the plate away and asked if he could bring her anything else, she shook her head. The last time she’d cried had been when Paige miscarried eight years ago, but she was feeling like she might shed a few tears right now.
She blamed it on the wine.
“Just the check, please,” she told him, hating when her voice sounded small.
“It’s already been taken care of,” he replied back, grabbing her empty wine bottle as well.
She frowned at him. “What do you mean, ‘It’s been taken care of?’”
“It’s been paid.”
Someone had paid for her dinner? It had probably been almost two hundred dollars, not including the tip. “By who?”
“By that gentleman.” The waiter pointed toward the far corner of the restaurant, where a man sat with a bottle of wine and a half-filled glass on the table in front of him. The lighting in the room was just dim enough to make the identification of the man take a few seconds, and when she did, she felt her face flush with angry disbelief.
Malcom fucking Hodge.
She’d been so focused on what an awful time she was having, she hadn’t looked around the room very much, not wanting to make eye contact with anyone and see sympathy (orworse, pity) on their faces, and so had missed him. Had he been here the entire time? Had he watched her sit by herself, all dressed up and eating alone? Watched her waiting for him?
Jules didn’t know if the wine was entirely to blame, but she was having a hard time processing all the emotions punching her in the face: astonishment, shock, embarrassment, hurt, and humiliation.
She watched as Malcom picked up his glass and the bottle of wine, then made his way to her table and sat in the chair across from her. She took in his charcoal gray suit, with a light blue tie that almost matched her dress. However, despite his clean shave and tailored appearance, he looked tired, like he hadn’t slept very well in the past few days.
Swallowing hard, she asked as evenly as possible, “Have you been here the entire time?”
“Yes. I arrived before you did,” he answered.
A fresh wave of self-consciousness washed over her, at the revelation she’d essentially been watched for an hour and a half, without her knowledge. It made her feel awkward and exposed … and played. “Why? So you could watch while you taught me a lesson?” An edge crept into her voice as she got to her feet. “Because … well done.”
She started to walk away, and he got to his own feet, calling after her, “Jules, wait.”
She stopped, and after a long pause, turned to look at him.
“This wasn’t about watching while I taught you a lesson,” he told her earnestly. “I wasn’t trying to teach you a lesson. I just needed to see if my not showing up mattered a damn to you, and if it did, I needed to know how that would affect me.”
Some of her anger receded, as she made herself look at the situation from his viewpoint as a somewhat shy man who’d felt a strong connection with her. If the situation was reversed, would Jules have done anything differently if he’d ghosted her, then contacted her fifteen months later out of the blue, leaving a voicemail apology, then sending a flower arrangement, and issuing a dinner invitation after tracking her down while she was at lunch—with the caveat she could stand him up if she wanted to?
