Page 13 of DadBod
ELIZABETH
Rome’s been gonefor almost two weeks. Word on the street, and by street, I mean Gianna, is he’ll be back tonight. I don’t know why that makes me nervous, but it does. What do I say to him? Do I tell him how sorry I am for his loss? Should we have all pitched in and gotten flowers for the funeral? That took place in California just a few days after she died. I read her obituary online. Funny. You wouldn’t know it by meeting her, but she had a degree in art from Berkley. It said that she’d always wanted to be an art teacher but that she met “Romeo James” and moved to Chicago to raise a family.
The first time his mom, Bianca James, referred to him as “Romeo,” I thought she was kidding. What did I do? I laughed. That earned me a very angry look from the man himself. I don’t know a lot about books, but I know Shakespeare wrote Romeo and Juliet. We had to read that book in my high-school literature class. When I heard Bianca refer to Phee, Rome’s older sister, as Ophelia, I looked that up. It only took one search to find out her name is also from a Shakespeare book. Hamlet or something like that. His parents must really love that old writer.
Placing the strap of my black apron over my head, I reach back to tie it into place, when the restaurant goes quiet. Silent. We’re all setting up for dinner; there’s a lot of hustle and bustle that goes on, ordinarily. When I look up, I see the reason for the silence. Rome James is striding into the restaurant like he owns the place.
Ha ha.
Because he does own the place.
I think I speak for all of us when I say he looked effing hot in a black suit, light-blue dress shirt, and a tie that was swirled with color. My God. The man in a suit is something to behold. He must have them tailored just for his body. Either that or he pays for someone to make them from scratch, because he’s a sight to behold. “Rome?” I say his name aloud. I don’t know why.
Holding up his hand to stop us from spewing all the things we want to say, he says, “I’m fine. I’ll address any and all questions tomorrow. Staff meeting at three here.” He points down, meaning we’re meeting at the restaurant. “For now, let’s get ready. We’ve got a ton of reservations. It’s going to be a busy night.” He looks over at Antony, the head chef. “What’s the special, Antony?”
We all turn to chef and wait. “Italian springtime lamb.”
Jeriann snickers behind me as I mutter, “Fuck my life.”
He goes on describing the dish. I do my best to tune him out, but that’s a bad idea. I’m guessing tonight isn’t a good night to piss off the boss. I listen as he says, “The lamb is served with gremolata, all on a bed of rosemary mashed potatoes.”
“Yum,” Jeriann whispers in my ear. “Doesn’t that sound delish?”
“Fuck off,” I grumble, adding, “Why tonight?” Why did he have to make lamb tonight? The chef hasn’t been making any baby-animal dishes since Rome left. But, tonight, he does. “Ugh.” Because of course he does.
Jeri pats my shoulder. “It’s gonna be okay. Remember the poor little thing is already dead. Don’t let it die in vain.”
“I seriously hate you,” I hiss as I look back at my former bestie.
“No, you don’t. You love me.”
“Please recommend the Piquet pinot noir with the special,” Rome states with confidence. “Describe it as a red with complex flavors that include cherry, raspberry, mushroom, and forest floor, plus vanilla and baking spice, aged in French oak.”
French oak?
The man knows his wine, that’s for sure. “Now.” He claps his hands together once. “Let’s get to work.”
And that’s what we do.
* * *
Rome was right.The place is crazy tonight. Busier than we’ve been in months. Gianna does her usual and seats two tables at once in my section, but I’m too busy to worry about it. Also, I think I’ve figured out a work-around about the special. At least, I thought I did.
“I know what you’re doing.”
I jump at the sound of his voice. He’s behind me, whispering close to my ear. I turn my head slowly and see he’s bent down––mere inches away. “What are you talking about?” I’m frozen on the spot, afraid if I turn around, I’ll end up pressing my body into his. Okay. Now, I know that doesn’t sound horrible, but it’d be embarrassing. Believe me.
“I can hear you.”
“Hear me?” Sure. I’m playing dumb.
“Welcome to When in Rome.” He’s using a high-pitched voice to speak now. I guess he’s mimicking me. He doesn’t sound anything like me, but I continue to listen. “I’m glad you’re here. This is a really special place.”
I want to laugh, but I’d better not.
“You say the word ‘special’ extra loud to make me think you’re telling them about the lamb.”
“Rome.” God. I want to laugh, but I can’t. “No.” I shake my head. “I’m not doing that.”