Page 25 of The Frog Prince
Clearly Jamie never felt his masculinity questioned, although Tom seems quite insecure about his at the moment.
Tom’s still talking. “I swear. I can go all night.”
This guy’s amazing, I think. He’s everything I never wanted, and more. “That’s fantastic, Tom. You must love night skiing.”
“Night skiing?”
“You said you could go all night.”
“I’m talking about… sex.” He leans forward. “Inbed.”
“Oh!” I feign ignorance. “Wow. Congratulations. That’s really wonderful. You must be so proud.”
Tragically, it seems he is.
We somehow make it from the bar, across the city to Ghirardelli Square. A new restaurant has opened opposite the square, and this is the cool place Tom’s been talking about. It’s certainly crowded when we arrive, lots of young, glamorous folks standing in the entrance, and even more spilling from the bar. It’s a big restaurant, and yet every table is full. The over-the-top lighting—red spotlights only, softened by little votives glowing on all the tables—illuminates the massive statue in the center of Ovio, the statue resembling a Mayan god with a massive erection.
“What do you think?” Tom asks as we’re led to our table.
“It’s cool.”
“I love it here.”
I’m not surprised. This is the ultimate in phallic power, and once seated, I realize that at least half the tables are filled with couples that are just men.
“Another drink?” Tom asks, trying to catch the eye of a server.
“No, I’m good.”
“One more won’t hurt you.”
“I don’t want to pass out.”
“You won’t pass out.”
“No, but I will be sick, and I’d hate to do that to your car.”
That’s enough to keep Tom from pushing more liquor on me.
For the next half hour we manage small talk while he has another cocktail and I try not to go mad with hunger. It’s nearly a quarter to nine by the time a food server appears to take our order, but before we can actually order anything, the waiter’s called away.
I feel like screaming. Or throwing something. I’m so hungry and tired, and have I said really,reallyhungry? But Tom’s oblivious. He’s happy with his drink, has launched into another discussion, this one about the best private golf courses in Monterey and Carmel, and all I can think about is food. I’m finding it increasingly hard to concentrate on anything Tom is saying.
Please just give me some bread. A little appetizer. One bite of salad. I’ll even accept a leaf of iceberg lettuce at this point.
Finally, finally, twenty minutes later, our waiter reappears with a smile. He shakes his head. “It’s always like this.” He puts his hands on his hips as he surveys us. “Have you two had a chance to look at the menu?”
We’ve had over an hour. “Yes.”
“Any questions I can answer about the menu, or Ovio?”
I’m past hungry. I’ve hit super grumpy. “Do we actually get anything to eat here?”
The waiter stops smiling, and Tom covers my hand. “Little feisty, aren’t you?” he says, squeezing my hand and laughing. Ha ha ha ha. “I think we have to feed Baby.”
I pull my hand out from beneath his, attempt to order, but Tom has a different idea. “I know the menu,” he says. “Let me handle this.”
Why the hell not, Tom? You’re doing everything else tonight.