Page 53 of Meet Cute Reboot
The mood in the room seems friendly. No one complains about her idea or grumbles about the potential intrusion on their properties. I expected a few people to balk.
The president of our neighborhood non-profit stands to close the meeting. “Thank you for coming, Ms. Sears,” he says. “We’ll write up your proposal in our weekly newsletter and schedule a time to vote on it.”
Cassie shakes his hand and then joins me in the pew. She gives me a funny look. I realize I’m still holding the Bible.
“Light reading.” I drop the Bible back into the slot.
“Was I that boring?” she says in a low voice.
“Not at all. You did great. Since when did you become such an amazing public speaker?”
“I joined Toastmasters a few years ago.”
The meeting wraps up and my neighbors file down the main aisle. A couple of people stop to let Cassie know they have storiesand will be emailing her. This buoys my already elated spirit. I’m sitting next to Cassie,andI may have landed her a new business opportunity. I feel like a teenager and a brilliant, mature businessman simultaneously. The synergy creates a tangible fuel, harnessable power that I use to utter my next sentence:
“Do you want to grab a bite to eat?”
Cassie studies my face and then shrugs. “Sure.”
Running to the altar screaming “Praise Jesus” might turn Cassie off. Instead, I say, “I know a great place by the harbor.”
We head up Cumberland Street, my car in front and Cassie following closely behind in her SUV. I tried to convince her to let me drive us both. No bueno. I didn’t press the issue, afraid she might back out altogether.
The Flagship Bar and Grille sits on the east side of Concord Street overlooking Charleston Harbor. The tan, vinyl-sided building has a generous porch overhang with a metal, barn-style roof, and a gabled two-story entrance.
We exit our cars, Cassie lets me open the restaurant door for her, and we’re immediately seated in a spacious booth overlooking the water with a prime view of the pier. Cassie sits first, and I move to sit across from her, but she motions me to her side. My heart skips a couple of beats, not enough to put me in cardiac arrest, but enough to let me know the nerves are kicking up. I don’t want to read too much into her gesture, but I think she’s starting to soften.
The sparkling water, illuminated by twilight, acts as a backdrop for Cassie’s shoulders and hair while the yellow-tinged pendant light above the table softly illuminates the gentle curvesof her cheekbones, chin, and forehead. I force myself not to stare, instead sweeping my eyes around the room to get a feel for the place.
The restaurant’s atmosphere is rustic—wood-paneled walls and booths, wide-open ceilings with wooden beams crisscrossing throughout. I hope the food lives up to the cozy décor and the savory aromas coming from the kitchen.
We both study our menus making random approving comments about the fare: fried green tomatoes, crab and spinach dip, shrimp three ways. Soon, our waitress arrives to take our drink orders.
“Hi, I’m Sonja. I’ll be taking your order tonight.”
“I’ll just have water,” I say.
This place needs stricter wardrobe standards. Sonja’s blue jeans are fair enough, but her black stretchy top barely covers what must be double Fs. We’re talking cleavage for miles. You could go on climbing expeditions on those.
“I’ll bring your drinks right out,” Sonja says.
When she’s gone, I mutter, “You could probably make fifty pacifiers out of all that silicone.”
“Her boobs aren’t fake.”
“You don’t think?”
“No, they jiggle too much. Also, please don’t say ‘boobs’ on camera.”
I sigh as Cassie pulls out her phone. Should have known this was coming. That’s why she wanted me to sit next to her. “We’re doing this again?”
“This is business,” she says. “We’re here to gain subscribers.”
“I’m here to eat crab legs and fried green tomatoes. And also to enjoy the panoramic views of Charleston Harbor.”
“The Instagram audience loves your face for some reason. You should post more on social media. You could monetize.”
“I don’t want to monetize my face.”