Page 11 of The Quit List
“Sure you have,” I reply. Which is true. I’ve kicked out many drunk and disorderly people—after food service finishes around 10PM, the bar stays open late on weekends and things can get rowdy. The second any idiot guy even thinks about putting his hands on a woman without her consent, I throw them out on their ass immediately.
But I can’t say I’ve ever had to intervene while someone was on a freaking sit-down dinner date.
Dante’s still staring at me like I’ve grown three heads. “You went right over there, kicked her date out, and sat down with her. And then, if that wasn’t already totally unlike you, you brought her cake.”
“Her date was a future star of America’s Most Wanted.” What I don’t say is that seeing her over there—looking so vulnerable next to that huge, angry man—triggered something in me.
“But the cake,” he repeats, going on like a broken record. “I’ve never, ever, in all the years I’ve worked here, seen you bring anyone cake…” Dante trails off, apparently painfully lost in thought. Then, he snaps his fingers—apparently having a lightbulb moment. “I get it. You’re hitting that.”
I raise a tired brow at him. “I’m most definitely not. And don’t say ‘hitting that.’”
“Well, I can’t exactly say hitting her, can I? Because that would give things a bit of a dark turn.”
I snort. “How about you don’t say that either, then?”
Dante points at me, grinning like a fool. “You’re totally hitting that.”
“I’m about to hit you if you don’t shut up.”
“Is that why she’s been coming here on all those dates? Trying to make you jealous?”
“That sounds like the plot of a bad rom com movie,” I say as I get to work on a French Martini. My sister, Maddie, grew up addicted to those films, and I appear to have absorbed some of their fluffy, ridiculous plotlines by proxy.
“I’d watch it.”
Dante cranes his neck to look at Holly’s retreating figure and I follow his gaze as Holly steps outside and pulls her jacket on. Her petite frame appears small and slight as she shivers against the cold, even with the addition of those heels that she’s wearing. It draws the sudden urge in me to run after her and check that she is, indeed, getting in a Lyft, and not an unmarked white van.
The woman seems to have zero survival instinct.
My jaw tenses at the memory of her staring down that drunken fool, a wide-eyed guppy as he closed in like a hungry shark.
I wanted nothing more than to punch Keith in the face when I saw him intimidate her like that. I saw his moves a mile off—he was keeping quiet to not make a scene, while he simultaneously made Holly feel like she was alone and out of options. I knew that song and dance by heart before I hit middle school, watching how my father behaved with my mom, and then his second wife.
The only thing that stopped me from swinging was the fact that the bistro is, at present, housing over a hundred patrons—including a large table of burly guys who look like they would be all too happy to get involved in a throwdown.
I wanted to teach the guy a lesson, not incite a riot.
“Does she know that you’re still seeing Laurel?” Dante asks out of the corner of his mouth, as though Holly can somehow hear us from all the way outside the bistro.
“I’m only seeing Laurel,” I say honestly with a roll of my eyes. The only dating I do is the casual kind, but I don’t do the dating-multiple-women-at-the-same-time thing. I add a shot of Chambord and some pineapple juice to the ice-filled shaker in front of me. “Not that it even matters. I was just helping Holly out like any decent person would have.”
“Holly… Hot name, too. Well, if you’re not interested, do you mind if I go outside and have a quick chat with her? Show her what boyfriend material looks like?” He smooths his hands down his shirt, basically preening.
“Be my guest.”
But somehow, I get the feeling that Dante wouldn’t get too far with Holly. She surprised me—she’s always so fashionably dressed and perfectly-put together… I wasn’t expecting the sarcastic, self-deprecating humor, the quick-witted teasing, the awkward mannerisms.
I can’t help but wonder what, exactly, a woman like that is looking for when she says she’s looking for the one. Or why she’s bothering to look at all.
“What’re you guys talking about?” We look over to see Kara, one of the waitresses, standing in front of the bar with her hands on her hips.
“Just finishing the drink order for your table,” I say swiftly, not wanting to dwell on the woman and her bad date anymore. I have other things to think about. “It’ll be a minute.”
“I have time.” She catches my eye and winks flirtily.
I nod back. Dante, on the other hand, treats her to a full-faced grin, coupled with a strategic bicep flex as he leans forward on the counter. “Looking good, Kara,” he drawls, all thoughts of Holly apparently forgotten.
My fellow bartender is a great guy, but sometimes I feel like his entire personality is chasing women. He’s a good-looking dude. Suave and charming, too. And he’s dated pretty much every female staff member in this restaurant… with the noticeable exception of Kara, who has made it clear from day one that she has eyes for nobody but me.