Page 33 of The Bodyguard Affair
“No! A phobia of snakes is perfectly rational. Some types can kill you. Same with grizzly bears, like the ones probably roaming the forest below us,” I note, avoiding looking down. “But I mean weird ones…like on that old TLC show? Remember the person who was afraid of tinfoil? Or grapes?”
He barks out a laugh as we reach the top. The A-frame restaurant looks irresistibly cozy from here. “Grapes?”
“Yes, grapes,” I insist, trying to keep a straight face as thegondola lurches to a sudden stop. “You could choke on them. They could roll off the counter and you could slip on them.”
He grabs my arm, steadying me before guiding me onto the platform. “Okay, fair point. But tinfoil? What’s so terrifying about a thin sheet of metal?”
“Tinfoil is sharp. Paper cuts,” I argue, grateful to be back on solid ground.
“That’s true. I‘ll be more sensitive,” he promises, stepping aside to let me walk ahead.
The restaurant is rustic-fancy, which suits my choice to wear a simple chiffon floral print dress (a decision I angsted over for the better part of my evening instead of hitting my word count goal, not that I needed to, since it’s not like this is a real date). It’s also fairly empty. Large windows line the far wall, offering near-panoramic views of the mountains. A large fireplace stands in the middle, the flames casting a warm glow around the dining room.
We select a wooden booth tucked into the far corner of the bar, sitting for only a couple seconds before a young waiter with a gloriously curly man-bun approaches with menus. He introduces himself as Ralph over the distant strains of folk music playing through the sound system. The moment the name leaves his lips, Nolan shoots me a wide-eyed look over the top of his menu.
I tilt my head knowingly when the waiter leaves. “Why the look? What’s wrong with poor Ralph?”
A shrug. “Nothing. He just doesn’t look like a Ralph. He gives me Randy energy.”
“How so?”
Nolan subtly eyes Ralph, who’s innocently chatting with thebartender across the room. “Ralph strikes me as a banker who collects stamps as a side gig. This waiter looks like he lives in a vintage van and knows all the best surfing spots. He probably owns a Hawaiian shirt or two. Or five.”
A bubble of laughter comes out, muffled by the menu in front of my face. It reminds me of how he critiqued my main character’s name the night we met. “You’re really big on names, aren’t you?”
“Names set the tone for a person’s entire life,” he explains, doodling a swirl on the wooden tabletop with his index finger. “A name can affect someone’s entire first impression of you. Make you think certain things.”
“Good point. I never really thought about it like that. When I name characters in my books, I look at a list of common names from the year they were born, close my eyes, and choose one in under ten seconds.”
Amusement flirts at the corner of his lips. “Like Bryce?”
“Exactly. For the record, I changed his name to Brady at your suggestion.”
He scrunches his face, pained. Before he can express verbal disapproval for Brady, he’s interrupted when Ralph returns with a pad of paper and pen in hand. “Random question. Do you own a Hawaiian shirt?”
“Yeah, man! I lived in Hawaii for a couple months,” Ralph says before taking our orders. Nolan gets the bison short ribs and potatoes, while I opt for a pesto pasta with a side of fries. I regret it immediately, because pesto tends to get stuck in your teeth. But by the time I come to my senses, Ralph is already speed-walking away, man-bun bouncing happily on the top of his head with each step.
Nolan flashes me a knowing look. “Told you. Shoulda been a Randy.”
I rest my elbows on the table and lean forward. It’s one of those booths that’s a few too many inches from the table. “What about me?”
“Well, you surprised me. I wouldn’t think an Andi would be a beer girl,” he says, rolling up the crisp white sleeves of his dress shirt.
I shrug, fiddling with the salt and pepper shakers. They’re hand-carved brown bears with massive bellies. “No?”
“I would have pegged you for a red wine girl. Classy, sophisticated.”
A snort escapes me. “You think I’m sophisticated?”
“You rub elbows with the prime minister, his wife, and members of Parliament on the daily. That makes you one of the most sophisticated people I know.”
“So do you,” I point out.
Nolan takes a long sip of his beer. “I’m security. That’s different. I don’t talk shop.”
“Neither do I. If people bother to talk to me, they talk at me. Not with me. And I wouldn’t know the difference between a cabernet from a French villa and the bottles they serve at East Side Mario’s. I don’t actually drink a lot in general. I mean, besides that night we met,” I add.
“Ah, that night,” he says wistfully, his grin tilting.
