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And what a difference it is.
A conveyor belt snakes its way from the kitchen window and around the groups of tables before disappearing back into the kitchen. There’s no ordering from a menu—guests are just taking plates off the belt as the food sails past them.
What’s on the belt, you ask?
Dessert, of course. It is something Wesley organized, after all.
Desserts of every shape, size, color, and culture are meandering around the space, tempting everyone who lays eyes on them—myself included.
I haven't even tasted anything yet, but I think out of all the places Wesley's dragged us to before, this one might just be my favorite.
I say he drags me, but I actually do enjoy our bi-weekly dessert nights. I get to spend time with my best friends and try new confections—what’s not to love?
Even so, I'm glad Phillip and I were able to talk him into an every other week arrangement for these things instead of his original suggestion of “whenever something interesting pops up.”
For anyone who doesn't speak Wesley, “whenever” translates into every other night at minimum, especially when it comes to sweets.
How that man doesn't have a crown on every single one of his teeth is a mystery I may never solve.
I smile at the thought then scan the tables to see if I can spot them.
No luck.
A few moments pass, and I still can’t find them.
I really don't want to have to fight my way through the crowd to get to the host stand, but it looks like I might have to.
Right as I'm about to brave the crowd, I see Wesley.
Is he…
He absolutely is.
This grown ass man is standing on his chair, waving at me like a cheerleader waves her pom poms.
All the other guests in the V.I.P. section (because of course, that's where he is) are glaring daggers at him, but he doesn't notice.
Social convention dictates that I should be embarrassed too, but I'm not.
He's always been a demonstrative guy. I swear he was born with his heart on his sleeve.
It's something I've always admired and envied. That and the way he refuses to be anything other than his authentic self.
I wave back with a smile then skirt around the crowd at the host stand.
“Sir. Sir!” A frantic waitress rushes over to me. “You have to check in at the host stand.”
My eyes roam down the length of her body. That tiny uniform leaves nothing to the imagination.
“My party is actually here already. Right over there.”
I gesture vaguely toward my friends.
Her eyes narrow, and she fists her hands on her hips.
Damn, I love a woman with an attitude. They’re always the most fun in the bedroom.
“Really? And the names of the people in your party are?” she demands.
