Dinner for One by Meg Harding Page A

Jean’s turn to wrinkle his nose. “Other than the sex—which spare me the details, please—what did you guys do?”
    He ducks his head, feels his cheeks flush.
    Jean sighs. “You do know when you take a guy home like that, it doesn’t actually scream ‘oh I want commitment.’”
    Bastien thunks his head against his desk. “He talked like it wouldn’t be a one-time thing.”
    “Maybe it won’t be. Maybe he’s thinking the same thing you are right now,” says Jean. Bastien doesn’t think he sounds like he believes it, but he appreciates the effort nonetheless.
    “Can this conversation be over?” he asks.
    Jean nods. “God yes.” He stands, pats Bastien’s shoulder awkwardly, and beats a fast retreat.
    This is why you don’t open businesses with friends. He loses himself in the work, and the dinner rush that night is hectic. One of their servers calls in sick, and another is still in training. They have five different large parties, one of which involves a wedding proposal, and Bastien has to deal with the fiancé-to-be sneaking back to check on the state of his proposal dessert and the ring multiple times. It’s cute at first, annoying every time after.
    He also thinks it’s a waste of food.
    “Can we place bets on the likelihood of her chipping her tooth when she accidently bites the ring?” asks Renee, peaking over his shoulder while he carefully inserts the ring in the center of the pastry as instructed and fills in the hole.
    “Go right ahead,” says Jean. “We made the proposer sign a form saying they couldn’t sue us if she damages herself.”
    Bastien snorts. “I’m not entirely sure how legally binding that is.”
    Jean shrugs. “I think the odds are low enough that we don’t need to worry about it.”
    Ever the shark, Renee turns to Jean. “Does that mean you’ve got five bucks on her finding the ring with no excitement?”
    “Ten,” he says after a moment, looking like he’s thinking about it way too hard.
    She turns to Bastien, and he shakes his head. “I’m not getting involved in this. Why don’t you bet on the odds of her saying yes to such a cliché proposal?”
    Renee socks his arm. “She’s going to say yes. People love this shit.”
    Bastien carefully swirls the icing into a rose. “If someone proposes to me like this, I’m going to say no and end it.”
    “Such a romantic,” croons Jean.
    He’d shrug, but he doesn’t want to fuck up the pink carnations he’s trying to draw around the large rose. “I want something personal. That shows they know me. If they do something like this, I’ll know they haven’t actually been paying attention.” He outlines a petal. “Proposals should have meaning.”
    “Maybe it does have meaning to her,” points out Renee. “Different strokes for different folks and all that jazz.”
    He laughs. “I guess.”
    Of course the guy comes back yet again, led in by Henry, who’s trying very hard not to look fed up.
    “It’s coming along great,” Bastien assures him, trying not to be offended when the guy stoops over the pastry and looks at it from every angle. He has to remind himself this guy is paying a small fortune for this service.
    He delivers the dessert himself when it’s ready, and the kitchen grinds to a momentary halt that they really shouldn’t, to huddle around the door and look out. Even Bastien does it, ignoring the contradictory ache of want in his stomach even though he hates the idea of this proposal.
    He can’t help his grimace when he watches the bride-to-be spit out the ring. Gross. She doesn’t look like she did any damage, though, and Jean crows happily, holding out his hand for his winnings.
    Everyone starts to clap, and the woman has her arms thrown around the guy’s neck. She said yes, then.
    Jean and he go out to wish the happy couple congratulations and offer them a complimentary bottle of champagne.
    He feels worn thin by the time the night is done and they’re shutting the door behind the