Page 17 of Escape To Paradise
I was hesitant to reach for his hand, but eventually did and shook it. “My name’s Harper.”
“What a pretty name.” He said it in a way that sounded too cocky. He forgot to shake the girls’ hands and only asked, “What drink do you guys want?”
“I’d like a Pina Colada,” I ordered.
The girls ordered a specialty cocktail.
Maverick was smiling as he prepared our order, but he kept looking over his shoulder at me. I was getting self-conscious.
“The guy likes you,” Zofia, who sat next to me, whispered teasingly.
“Are we in high school? No, he does not.” I was very annoyed by this immature behavior.
“He’s going to ask for your number. Wait and see,” Zofia teased again.
“No, he won’t.” I furrowed my eyebrows.
Meanwhile, Maverick was shaking the cocktail glass clumsily, reminding me how Benoit was adept at cocktail making. Maverick was a bit haphazard in his mixing of the alcohol like he was a newbie. He was also looking at a cheat sheet.
After producing the drinks, he handed them to the three of us. He finished mine first, then Zofia’s, and then Kathleen’s.
I sipped the Pina colada and spat it out. “What the heck?” I complained. “It’s too tart and sweet!”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I probably added too much pineapple juice.” He blushed a bit.
“How long have you done this?” I asked.
“Well, just a couple of months.”
“A couple of months? Who’s the manager?” I hated to be one of those complaining customers, but my pina colada was just plain awful.
“Well, I’m the manager,” he replied. He didn’t sound too confident now.
“Oh, so you’re also the manager?”
“Well, yeah, sort of,” he said sheepishly.
The server, the male one, came forward and asked what was going on, and Maverick just shushed him away.
“How about you, girls? How’s your drink?” I asked them. They were sipping their drinks and didn’t seem bothered at all.
“I don’t care. It has alcohol. It tastes decent.” Zofia shrugged her shoulders.
Kathleen just kept sipping and not really listening to the entire conversation. She was in her own world.
“Why do you know so much about alcohol?” Maverick asked. He seemed to have recovered; the redness on his face was gone.
“I used to run my own restaurant. I’m a chef.” There was no boasting on my part. It was just the simple truth.
“Well, maybe I could hire you to rework our menu and drinks menu.”
“Hire me?” I was offended. I was the customer, not a prospective employee.
“I mean, if the price is right, right?” He winked.
Something about Maverick just rubbed me the wrong way. “Excuse me? I’m your customer, not the help.”
Zofia laughed out loud. Something about my conversation with Maverick was very amusing for her but, obviously, not for me.
