in my dining room. You’re sure you can’t tell me who is responsible for this?”
“The gift-giver prefers that we not say,” the older gentleman explained, as, with a flourish, he set down a snowy white tablecloth. Then the three men arranged the food on the table, leaving the sorbet in the freezer section until he wanted it. Finally, the youngest, roundest gentleman held out Eduardo’s chair.
“Thanks.” He took a seat.
“If there is nothing else,” the lead waiter told him, “simply call the number on the silver cart when you wish for us to return and gather our things.”
“Thank you very much,” Eduardo said.
The wine was opened; then the waitstaff departed. Eduardo poured himself a crystal goblet of the French white wine and took a small sip. Heavenly. A smile tugged at the edges of his mouth. Who would do something like this?
That was when he heard another knock on the door.
“Come in, it’s open!” he called.
The door opened. It was the lead waiter again. “I’m sorry, Mr. Munoz. We neglected to bring in one thing. Patrick?” He turned to the front door, where a second waiter carried in something long and cardboard under his arm. He set it on the chair opposite Eduardo—the cutout had been manufactured to bend at the knees.
“Your dining companion, Mr. Munoz,” Patrick told him.
Eduardo found himself sitting across from a life-size full-color cardboard replica of Sam. She was wearing tennis clothes, exactly the ones she’d had on in Mexico the first time Eduardo had spent any time with her. Words were scrawled in giant black letters across the front of the cutout’s tennis shirt:
BON APPETIT. CALL ME.
Sam stepped outside and coolly handed the valet her parking stub. As desperately as she wanted to run upstairs to Eduardo’s condo, pound on the door, and throw herself at his feet, she wasn’t going to do it. In fact, she wasn’t even going to stand around and wait to see if he came downstairs. Better to do what needed to be done, then depart.
More than anything she wanted this to work, but if it didn’t, she would think of something else. Giving up was simply not an option.
While she waited for the Hummer, she checked her makeup in the small mirror that flipped up from her Bobbi Brown lip gloss trio, dug into her purse for her Touche Éclat, and touched up the area around her eyes. Then she checked her BlackBerry messages—she’d turned her cell off just before she went into the building. There was a message from Cammie, who reported that she hadn’t been able to connect with her father tonight after all. She was feeling antsy; did Sam want to meet her for a drink?
Sam was game, even as she mentally counted the calories of a Mudslide. Cammie was at the Whiskey Blue bar at the W hotel in Westwood. The Whiskey Blue had recently turned into a favored industry hangout, both because of its potent cocktails and its central location.
Though it was a Sunday night, the bar was jammed when she arrived. As she threaded her way through the dense, upscale-chic crowd toward the bar, she marveled again at the fantastic décor that had been the talk of the town when the place had first opened. Huge square red and black panels formed ninety-degree angles along one wall; nestled against their base were low-slung flat wooden tables with even more low-slung cushioned high-tech couches that formed cozy conversation nooks. The floor was jet-black slate, with a row of wooden rectangular on-edge abstract sculptures that ended in square tabletops ready for plates and drinks.
The bar itself was a marvel, with a long blond-wood countertop, square brown-and-yellow wooden chairs instead of bar stools, and square red lights at intervals across the top. The effect was anything other than square. Sam spotted Cammie on one of the bar chairs between Thailand’s Princess Duangthipchot—whose hair reached her ass and who’d turned into a total party animal of late—and a Dream Works exec whose last
“The gift-giver prefers that we not say,” the older gentleman explained, as, with a flourish, he set down a snowy white tablecloth. Then the three men arranged the food on the table, leaving the sorbet in the freezer section until he wanted it. Finally, the youngest, roundest gentleman held out Eduardo’s chair.
“Thanks.” He took a seat.
“If there is nothing else,” the lead waiter told him, “simply call the number on the silver cart when you wish for us to return and gather our things.”
“Thank you very much,” Eduardo said.
The wine was opened; then the waitstaff departed. Eduardo poured himself a crystal goblet of the French white wine and took a small sip. Heavenly. A smile tugged at the edges of his mouth. Who would do something like this?
That was when he heard another knock on the door.
“Come in, it’s open!” he called.
The door opened. It was the lead waiter again. “I’m sorry, Mr. Munoz. We neglected to bring in one thing. Patrick?” He turned to the front door, where a second waiter carried in something long and cardboard under his arm. He set it on the chair opposite Eduardo—the cutout had been manufactured to bend at the knees.
“Your dining companion, Mr. Munoz,” Patrick told him.
Eduardo found himself sitting across from a life-size full-color cardboard replica of Sam. She was wearing tennis clothes, exactly the ones she’d had on in Mexico the first time Eduardo had spent any time with her. Words were scrawled in giant black letters across the front of the cutout’s tennis shirt:
BON APPETIT. CALL ME.
Sam stepped outside and coolly handed the valet her parking stub. As desperately as she wanted to run upstairs to Eduardo’s condo, pound on the door, and throw herself at his feet, she wasn’t going to do it. In fact, she wasn’t even going to stand around and wait to see if he came downstairs. Better to do what needed to be done, then depart.
More than anything she wanted this to work, but if it didn’t, she would think of something else. Giving up was simply not an option.
While she waited for the Hummer, she checked her makeup in the small mirror that flipped up from her Bobbi Brown lip gloss trio, dug into her purse for her Touche Éclat, and touched up the area around her eyes. Then she checked her BlackBerry messages—she’d turned her cell off just before she went into the building. There was a message from Cammie, who reported that she hadn’t been able to connect with her father tonight after all. She was feeling antsy; did Sam want to meet her for a drink?
Sam was game, even as she mentally counted the calories of a Mudslide. Cammie was at the Whiskey Blue bar at the W hotel in Westwood. The Whiskey Blue had recently turned into a favored industry hangout, both because of its potent cocktails and its central location.
Though it was a Sunday night, the bar was jammed when she arrived. As she threaded her way through the dense, upscale-chic crowd toward the bar, she marveled again at the fantastic décor that had been the talk of the town when the place had first opened. Huge square red and black panels formed ninety-degree angles along one wall; nestled against their base were low-slung flat wooden tables with even more low-slung cushioned high-tech couches that formed cozy conversation nooks. The floor was jet-black slate, with a row of wooden rectangular on-edge abstract sculptures that ended in square tabletops ready for plates and drinks.
The bar itself was a marvel, with a long blond-wood countertop, square brown-and-yellow wooden chairs instead of bar stools, and square red lights at intervals across the top. The effect was anything other than square. Sam spotted Cammie on one of the bar chairs between Thailand’s Princess Duangthipchot—whose hair reached her ass and who’d turned into a total party animal of late—and a Dream Works exec whose last
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