Page 91 of Ship Happens

The first thing that Owen notices is the music, soft piano that’s almost immediately calming. Then there’s the smell of the food as they step through the doorway, roasted garlic and oils and meat and vegetables, that causes Owen’s mouth to water. Voices murmur and glasses clink together, knives scrape against porcelain plates.

“Good evening!” The maître d’ greets them with a warm smile. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

“We’d like a table,” Jacob says.

“And are you members of the dining club?” she asks them.

“Members?” Owen’s brows furrow in confusion. “Of the restaurant?”

She eyes them like they’re the odd ones here. “That answers my question.” There’s a twinge of impatience to her tone. “Do you happen to have a reservation?”

“Oh, uh . . . no, we don’t,” Jacob admits, hand rubbing at the back of his neck.

“Well, I’m sorry,” she says, not seeming that sorry at all. “But we only accommodate a limited number of diners each night.”

“Seriously?” Owen says without thinking, the maître d’ shooting him a glare. “Sorry.”

“We didn’t realize that it’d be so exclusive,” Jacob starts to say. “Is there any way that we could—”

That’s when Owen decides to take charge, wrapping his hand around Jacob’s and pulling him in closer. “It’s just, today’s our anniversary.” He rattles the lie off easily. “And we really wanted to do something special. We’ve heard so much about this place and we were just hoping that we could somehow maybe snag a seat.”

Owen scrunches his shoulders, batting his eyelashes innocently, hoping that the one thing he got from his father might finally pay off.

The maître d’ glowers at them—sending a little bit of extra attitude Owen’s way before her expression wavers, as if she’s actually considering letting them in.

“What was the name again?” she asks, her nails clicking when she taps the screen of her iPad.

“Morrison?” Jacob says to her, more like a question than a reply. Like he doesn’t believe that’s his own last name.

“Ah! Here we are.” She beams, looking up at the both of them with a look of feigned surprise on her face. “Must’ve missed you!”

Owen feels Jacob’s hand relax underneath his own, the hostess grabbing two small menus as she motions for them to follow her. They’re escorted around a half wall that separates the main entrance from the restaurant proper.

The dining room’s a bit sunken in, with only about a dozen or so tables and booths available to choose from. The room is dimly lit, most of the light coming from sconces on the walls or candles flickering on the tables. Real candles this time. On the far side of the dining area, there’s a small stage, complete with a black piano where a man sits, playing soft music. They’re given the only empty table left in the restaurant, tucked a bit away in the corner closer to the stage.

“Your waiter will be out in a moment,” the maître d’ says, leaving their menus. “Hope you gentlemen enjoy. And happy anniversary.”

“Thank you so much.” Owen nods, a tad overenthusiastically just to make sure she knows he’s grateful.

“My pleasure.” She smiles at them before walking off. Owen turns to sit down before realizing that Jacob is pulling his chair out for him.

“Oh.” Owen pauses, caught off guard by the gesture. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Jacob clears his throat awkwardly as he takes his own seat across from Owen. “Happy anniversary,” he says with a twinkle in his eye.

“Happy anniversary.” Owen smiles back, just as a waiter comes by to leave a tall carafe of water. “And you’re welcome for the table too.”

“I was getting there!” Jacob objects. “Give me some time.”

“Well . . .” Owen motions with his hand, as if telling Jacob to get on with it. “I’m waiting.”

“I bet you don’t even remember that today’s an actual anniversary.”

Owen pauses, eyeing Jacob skeptically. “Wait . . . what?”

“Oh!” Jacob says. “Look who’s bad at dates now.”

“You forgot your own birthday, Jacob,” Owen reminds him. “Three years in a row.”