Page 2 of DadBod
Well, that and he’s effing gorgeous.
“Rome––” I sigh. He knows how I feel about this baby-animal topic. Why do I have to keep telling him?
“You don’t seem to mind selling meat from an adult cow. What about those animals? Don’t they matter?”
Yes, they matter. “Of course, they matter.” I really want to stomp my foot at this point, but I know better. “Do you know how they treat those baby cows, Rome? They put them in small, dark boxes so they don’t grow very much. The poor things live like that until they are turned into veal piccata.”
I’ve been here almost three years, which means we’ve had this conversation or one similar to it before. I don’t enjoy his ire directed at me. While I like to get a whiff of his cologne and see his eyes up close, I don’t relish these little talks of ours. No matter. I repeat, “They’re babies, Rome.”
Expecting the man to continue his rant, I’m a bit surprised when instead of yelling again, he stands up to his full height, rubs his hands over his face, and lets his head fall back and rest there as he mutters, “Fuck my life.”
His head slowly shifts until he’s looking down at me again. “Elizabeth.”
“Yeah?”
“Sell the fucking special.”
Part of me wants to stand up to the man, but I need this job. More than need it. If Rome got angry enough, he’d fire me. I’ve no doubt. Even though I’ve been here the second longest. Jackie has been here since he opened, five years ago. I’ve seen it. He’s fired people for less, trust me.
“Sure, Rome.” I give him my best smile. One where I show my teeth, which isn’t easy for me because smiling means I’m showing the ugly gap between my two front teeth. If I had the money, I’d fix them, but I’ll never make enough for that. Lord knows we didn’t have money for braces when I was younger.
Rome must have given up, because he turns on his heel and walks back to the bar. He’s muttering, but I hear him say what he said a minute ago. “Fuck my life.”
I suspect he knows the truth.
I’m still not selling the special.
* * *
Racing back to my tables,I stop at the one closest to that little conversation with my boss, table thirteen. “Sorry about that. What would you like for dinner?” I’d already gotten the man a glass of water and a cocktail. The basket with warm bread and pats of butter were planted in the middle of the table thanks to one of our bussers. All I need now is his dinner order. Luckily, he’s ready.
“I’ll have the special.” He slides the menu over to the edge of the table, all while smirking.
“Great.” I say in my perkiest voice, even though inside I’ve got the feeling this man is going to hell. There’s no point in arguing the case for the baby cows now. He’s made up his mind. The jerk. “And dressing for your salad?”
“The house dressing. On the side.”
“Garlic parmesan. Got it.” I jot down his choice and move to the table next to the man going to hell. The customers, three women, must’ve been seated during my little chat with Rome. “Sorry for the wait.”
“Did that man just order the special after all of that?” the woman on my left whispers, using her thumb to gesture at the man from my last table. Or attempts to whisper. It’s loud enough for even the guy in question to hear.
“Sure.” I shrug. “It’s super good.” The urge to scrunch up my face is so strong; I feel my nose twitch, and that’s because I can literally feel Rome watching me. Glancing to my right toward the bar, I see him. Yep––he’s staring. Glaring, more like.
“My goodness.” A woman about my dad’s age sitting on the right side of the booth speaks. “That man is yummy.”
“Uh, huh.” I nod. I mean. She’s right. Rome James is great looking. I’d even go so far as to agree with her assessment. He’s yummy.
Picture tall, broad shouldered, and muscly. But lean muscle, not bulky. His face is handsome. Like movie-star handsome. There’s a ruggedness about it, but it’s pretty all at the same time. Then there’s his jaw that’s clean-shaven at noon and has scruff on it by five. I guess that’s why they call it five-o’clock shadow.
Duh, Beth.
I’m pretty sure he works out every day too. I know he runs on Tuesdays and Thursdays because I’ve seen him come into the restaurant on the days I work lunch.
He’s even hot when he’s hot.
Snort.
I’m not the only one who thinks so. Ask the other servers here. Also, the cooks and bartenders. Even the bussers stare at the man from time to time. The man has “it.” I’ve seen, firsthand, a few of our customers, male and female, run into tables the second they get a glimpse of Rome. And once, a woman walked right into a wall.