Page 8 of Pucker Up
The waitress filled our water cups and handed us the menu, although I already knew what I was going to order. Goldie replaced her sunglasses with regular glasses—they were huge and made her eyes look even bigger.
“Wow. Those are some serious glasses. What do they call those kind?” I racked my brain. They were the kind of glasses that secretaries wore in porno movies, or librarians before they shook out their buns and their boobs popped out of their blouses. The steamy imagery wasn’t helping out with my short-term recollection of words. To make matters worse, Goldie’s nipples were slightly visible through her white tank top, and it was better than any movie I had ever seen.
“Glasses?” Goldie took them off and squinted as she looked at her own eyewear. “They’re used to read, you know words and stuff.”
I was falling right into the dumb hockey player stereotype. “No, there’s a name for the kind of glasses that go to a point. Horny rimmed or something?”
Goldie choked as she took a sip of water. She wiped her lips with her napkin. “I’m pretty sure that’s not what they’re called. I believe that you’re referring to horn-rimmed glasses, but these are just old-fashioned cat-eye glasses.”
“Cat eye.” I snapped my fingers. “That’s it.”
Fuck me. Horny rimmed. So much for winning her over. I shifted in the booth, apparently all the blood had run to my cock, leaving my brain starved for oxygen. If I wanted to have a chance with this girl, I needed a little bit of brain power. She slid the glasses back on her face and proceeded to study the menu like it was a textbook.
“Well, whatever they’re called, they suit you.” I set down the menu.
Goldie looked up over hers. “Thank you. I’ve had to wear glasses ever since I was a kid. I’m trying to have a little bit of fun with them. I spent so many years looking like Bubbles.”
A smile crept across my face. “Did you just referenceTrailer Park Boys?” It was a Canadian show, and wasn’t overly popular with the puck bunny crowd. I loved it.
“Rakins are the garbage cans again,” she quoted one of the characters who always said words wrong. In this case,racoons. It was hot.
“Did you see the one with the chicken fingers?” I leaned on my menu.
“And the hockey stick?” she laughed.
“The hockey stick. I forgot about that part. So good.” I was laughing too. “What’s a Canadian TV show without a hockey stick or two?”
“Oh, Canada.” She raised her eyebrows. “And its fucking hockey.”
“Whoa.” I reared back. “What’s with you and hockey?”
She shrugged. “What do you mean?”
The waitress appeared. “Do you have any questions about the menu?”
I gestured to Goldie. “Ladies first.”
“I’ll have the Chicago style with mozzarella and pepperoncini, and a glass of Cabernet.”
The waitress turned her attention to me. “And for…” Her voice trailed off. “Wait a minute, aren’t you…”
Without my disguise, I was no longer invisible. Behind the waitress, a couple of other people in the restaurant started whispering. It was only going to be a few minutes before a fan interrupted our non-date to ask for an autograph.
“I have one of those faces,” I interrupted. “I’d like the same, but add some of your homemade sausage.”
The waitress made notes on her pad, but she kept eye-fucking me. It was totally obvious. If it had been the other way around, and I was running my eyes up and down her body the same way, it would’ve landed me in jail. “Wine?” she asked.
“No, thank you. I’ll have a bottle of sparkling water.”
When the waitress took our menus, she made a point of letting her fingertips touch mine. “I’ll be right back with your drinks.”
I didn’t watch as she walked away. The overt flirtation while I was sitting with another woman was a complete turn-off. Goldie, on the other hand, did. When she returned her gaze to me, she smiled. “I guess you’re used to that.”
“What?” I played dumb.
“Please.” She sipped her water. “I’ll bet you one hundred bucks that waitress is in the kitchen telling all of her friends to walk by table one because there’s a Toronto Tiger sitting at it.”
As if on cue, a couple of the waitstaff sauntered by our table.
