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“Soon. Probably.”
“Fine. I’ll wait with you until he gets here.” Martin starts walking again, veering off to head in the direction of the cluster of restaurants, shops, and bars. “I’ll buy you a drink while we wait.”
“That’s really not necessary.”
His legs are long enough that I’m struggling to keep up. I’m five-six, which is taller than average. I don’t know how he manages it, since he’s not that much taller than I am, probably only five inches. Okay, probably more like six or seven, but still. Maybe emotional trauma has just slowed me down. Or maybe he’s purposefully walking fast so that I won’t be able to stop him from bird-napping.
Of course that would imply that he’s trying to trick me into letting him buy me a drink. And that can’t be right. I scramble to catch up and reach him right as he opens the door to one of the swanky restaurants, Le Petite Bistro.
I’ve been to Le Petite Bistro before. After all, my dad was a chef. I’ve been to nearly every restaurant in town. Austin is a foodie town, but it’s also a relaxed, tech-hippie town. Austin is like if Portland, Oregon and LA had a baby, and then that baby grew up to be a college student who studied physics and philosophy and got high on the weekends. My point is, few very places have a dress code. The food you can get from the food trucks scattered around town is the best. At its height, even Embarcado never had a dress code.
But Le Petite Bistro … it’s a bit of a relic. It’s been open forever, but somehow manages to still attract up and coming chefs who keep the menu fresh. It’s grown and changed with the times, but maintains its air of wealth, privilege, and exclusivity. And, as far as I know, it’s only place in town with a dress code.
It’s four on a Saturday, so they just opened. An hour from now, we wouldn’t get in without a reservation.
The host waiting at the hostess stand gives Martin and me a slow once over. Martin, with his jacket and air of casual wealth, obviously passes muster. I, with my dirty cargo capris, Doc Martins, and sloppy space buns, do not. I might skate by on a technicality, because my capris aren’t shorts, but it’s iffy. The host’s gaze lingers on my casual outfit with clear sniff of disdain. He tips his nose up before looking at Martin and then the pet carrier.
He gives a smug sniff of displeasure. “We have a no pets policy.”
Martin pulls out a folded bill. “It’s a service animal.”
The host takes the bill but arches an eyebrow.
Martin pulls out a business card. “And I’m her lawyer.”
The host huffs and picks up some menus.
The host leads us to a table in a back corner. Martin holds out at chair for me. What’s up with that? Then he moves a spare chair close to mine and sets the pet carrier on it.
I don’t know if it’s just for show—to convince the host that I really do need my therapy chicken close to me—or if Martin somehow knows that I do need my therapy chicken close to me.
Later, once the host is gone, Martin takes the seat across from me. He barely glances at the menu before asking me, “Do you have any dietary restrictions?”
“No.” Though a quick glance at the menu shows me that everything on it is out of my budget. “I’ll probably just have water.”
A moment later, when the waiter shows up, Martin orders enough appetizers for a small army and two gin and tonics.
I’m about to protest, but as soon as the waiter leaves, Martin beats me to it. “Don’t even try and argue with me. You were crying. Unless you have a health reason why you don’t drink, the gin and tonic will help. And food always helps. Just in case you have low blood sugar.” He gives me a long look. “Besides, you look … thin.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Rude. Did no one ever tell you you’re not supposed to comment on a woman’s weight?”
“That’s not what I meant.” He clenches his jaw, a blush creeping up his cheeks. “I thought you might be stressed.”
I tip my head, not sure what to think about the idea that this man, this relative stranger, seems to have noticed things about me my friends and family haven’t.
I’m not prepared to discuss my worries about my sister’s employment with him. Or my own precarious financial situation. So, state it like it’s no big deal. “I was crying at a bus stop. Obviously, I’m stressed.”
He studies me for a moment, and I feel like he’s trying to decide whether or not he should push for more information. Eventually he sighs. “Fine. I remember what it’s like to be a student. I survived on Ramen and hot pockets when I was a law student. Just take the meal for what it is.”
“Pity food?” I ask in mock outrage.
His lips twitch in obvious amusement. “A transparent attempt to keep you from bursting into tears again.”
The waiter brings our drinks, giving me a scornful once-over as he drops them off.
I smile at him gamely. “Sorry for the—” I gesture towards my general appearance and the pet carrier.
Before I can finish the thought, Martin cuts me off and shoes away the waiter.
