practically touched an amplifier. She touched Seanâs arm.
âDo you think we could find a different table?â she asked loudly.
Sean surveyed the room. âI think this might be it.â
Gemma did a quick circuit of the room. He was right. This was it.
Out of the whirlwind a waitress appeared, handing each of them a menu. âWhat can I get you to start?â she asked in an Irish brogue so thick Gemma thought she had to be putting it on.
âA Guinness,â Sean replied easily. The waitress turned to Gemma expectantly.
âGin and tonic, please.â
âMade with Tanqueray,â Sean added. The waitress nodded and disappeared into the crowd.
âHow do you know this place?â Gemma asked.
âItâs a popular FDNY hangout.â He glanced around the room. âIâm surprised no one I know is here.â
Gemma suspected as much. She felt like a fish out of water. The last time sheâd been in a place like this . . . wait: Had she ever been in a place like this?
Sean smiled at her, and she flipped open the menu, skimming the selections. Corned beef and cabbage. Bangers and mash. Fish and chips. Meat pies. Burgers. Gemma closed the menu.
âKnow what you want already?â
âThereâs a small problem.â
Sean dragged his chair closer to hers. Obviously he was having as tough a time hearing as she was. âWhatâs that?â
âIâm a vegetarian, remember?â
âShit. I didnât even think . . .â He trolled the menu, his easygoing expression slowly giving way to mild embarrassment.
âItâs okay,â Gemma assured him, squeezing his hand. âIâm sure I can find something.â She leaned over so their shoulders were touching, taking another look at the menu. âThere: cheese and onion pie. Iâll have that.â
Sean closed the menu, looking miserable. âIâm so sorry, Gem. I should have remembered.â
âNot a big deal.â
The waitress returned, plonking their drinks down on the table. âDo you know what you want, then?â
âIâll have the cheese and onion pie,â said Gemma.
âSorry, love, weâre all out.â
âOh.â
âDo you have any salads?â Sean asked.
The waitress bit down on the tip of her pen impatiently. âWhat you see on the menu is what you get. Sorry.â
âIn that case,â said Gemma, âI guess Iâll just have a plate of chips.â
The waitress looked testy. âThatâs it? Chips?â
âYes.â Gemma shot Sean a baffled look.
âIâm not sure you can do that, you know. Just have chips.â
âOh,â Gemma repeated, confused. âWhy not?â
âBecause chips go with something.â The waitress clucked her tongue in frustration. âFish and chips. Sausage and chips. Weâve never had anyone ask for âjust chipsâ before. Iâll have to ask the chef if itâs okay.â
Gemma looked at the waitress warmly. âIâm sure itâll be fine.â
âIt might not be.â
âLetâs just see how it goes,â Sean intervened, a big, fake smile cruising its way onto his face. It made Gemma want to laugh.
The waitress, now in a snit, peered down at Sean. âAnd what would you like, sir? â
âBangers and mash, please.â Sean closed his menu and handed it back with a knowing wink. âYou can also tell the chef itâs a New York City firefighter who wants that plate of chips.â
âVery good,â she bit out. âThank you.â
With that she left.
âGuess she doesnât care about getting a tip,â Gemma joked.
âCustomer service doesnât seem to be her strong point,â Sean agreed.
Gemma sipped her drink. It was watered down, more tonic than gin. The evening was not starting out on the most auspicious note. Still, all might not be lost. So what if
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