Page 53 of A Love Song for Ricki Wilde

“Welcome,” she mumbled flatly in a strong Bronx accent. “You got a reservation?”

“Apologies, ma’am, I didn’t make one. Any chance y’all have an open table?”

The hostess furrowed her fashionably thick brows and then looked Ezra and Ricki up and down. “Don’t you wanna check anything?”

Ricki shook her head pleasantly. “No, I think we’re good.”

Sighing, the hostess pushed through a curtain. “À chacun ses goûts.Follow me.”

“To each his own,” Ezra whispered to Ricki.

“You speak French?”

“I used to live in France.”

“What haven’t you done?”

“This.” Eyes sparking with mischief, he reached for her hand and laced his fingers with hers.

They’d never touched before, skin on skin, and a tingly, surging warmth radiated from their palms. For a moment, they were rooted to their spot, eyes locked on each other, grips tightening. Lightly, Ezra ran his thumb against her finger. Ricki let out a small, involuntary gasp.

“Stop,” she hissed.

“You stop,” he commanded, eyes twinkling. “Have some decorum.”

And then Ezra led her into the restaurant, following the hostess to the table. Pia’s Pantry was dimly lit, with faux-leather, graffiti-tagged banquettes lining the walls. Only one was free, nestled in the back. Ambient Europop warbled softly through speakers. The restaurant smelled like cinnamon and good coffee. Releasing their hands, they slid into the banquette, side by side.

They were seated for four seconds before Ricki noticed the other guests. “Look,” she whispered, clapping her palm to her mouth.

A couple across the room paid their check and then rose from their seats. The guy was wearing a buffalo plaid flannel; his date wore a cozy cashmere sweater—and, well, that was where their outfits stopped. The man had on tighty-whities. The woman was wearing a mesh thong.

They all looked normal on top. But down below, they wore nothing but their underwear.

Suddenly, a svelte young white guy with a handlebar mustache, a polo shirt, and a Speedo hurried to their table. “Sir? Ma’am? I’m your waiter. Did the hostess offer to check your pants?”

Ezra stared at him, incredulous. “If I may… what the hell y’alldoat this brunch?”

“Well, this is a bottomless brunch. No bottoms.” He paused. “It’s a pun?”

Ricki glanced at Ezra, lips kneaded together in rising hilarity.

“Okay, so I just skimmed the write-up! It was in the ‘Best Of’ section.”

“Best of what, though?” giggled Ricki.

The waiter handed them drink menus. “Sit with it for a moment. Our clientele finds the experience to be quite freeing.”

He left, and Ricki and Ezra watched a thirty-something blonde walk past them to the bathroom, wearing a designer blouse and cherry-print bikini briefs.

Ricki’s eyes were huge. “Is this even sexy? These seats are leather; it can’t feel good on naked thighs.” She quieted her voice. “I read about a woman who sat on her leather couch for six years, and her skin fused to it. She had to be cut away.”

“An introvert’s cautionary tale,” said Ezra, loving the absurdity of this experience.

“Look, I’m kink-positive, but I can’t imagine eating croque madame in a thong.”

“No? How about a Belgian waffle?”

“How repressed do you have to be to require a panty brunch to unleash your inner thot?”

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