Page 84 of Hate You More

The waiter arrives at the table in that moment. Clara hasn’t looked at the menu yet, but that doesn’t stop her getting into a discussion with the guy, pretty much extracting his life story.

“That is so impressive, Maxim. Full-time study and a full-time job—your family must be so proud of you.”

“It is not easy,” the guy answers haltingly, his accent pretty heavy. “But I am very glad to be here, to be able to provide for my family in America.”

Clara reaches out, briefly touching the man’s arm. “Well, we’re glad you’re here too,” she says with a soft sincerity. The guy looks back at her as though she’s the queen. Then she picks up her menu and orders the first thing that she sees.

Something the meds haven’t changed. The Clara I knew before rarely deliberated. She jumped—leaped with both feet, trusting the ground to rise up and meet her.

Or so it often seemed.

“You expecting extra shrimp?” I ask as the waiter leaves.

“Extra?”

I nod at his retreating form. “You, making friends with the waiter.”

“I was not making friends. I was making Maxim feel seen. Honestly, if everyone in the world spent one day wearing an apron, we’d all be a whole lot nicer.”

A curious sensation twists in my gut.

“I’ve missed this,” she says quite suddenly. “Being on the opposite side of the table.” She leans forward, her eyes wide and earnest. “I love restaurants, I’ve realized. And hotels. Just not so much working in them.”

I let out a chuckle because her expression is priceless, like she’s cluing me in on some huge secret.

“I imagine that is a largely thankless task.”

“The worst. But this,” she says, glancing around. “This I like.”

“I’m glad.” Even if her reaction makes me feel better than it should.

“When I was small, my grandmother would take me to the Plaza for afternoon tea. She’d wear a hat, and we’d both wear gloves, and lots of her fabulous jewelry. Like real ladies.” Her eyes turn soft with the reminiscence. “I think that’s why I love hotels. Because of her and those memories.”

Man, she is so fucking lovely when she smiles. “Where’s your favorite hotel?”

“Well.” Her fingers loop the stem of her glass. “There’s a place in Midtown where I used to go for a little peace.”

“Midtown?” I frown. “Not Paris or London?”

“Paris is très chic, and London is the best place for a G and T. But there’s nothing quite like a staycation in your own town.”

“Okay,” I say, like I doubt her.

“Truly—it’s just a stone’s throw from Bergdorf’s and the Park—and the MoMA. But it’s so quiet. And hardly anyone knows it’s there.”

“What’s the place called?”

“Secret,” she says, tapping her nose.

“What?” I half ask, half laugh.

“I can’t tell you the name of my secret hideaway.”

“You don’t wanna share it?”

She shakes her head. “You might steal the magic.”

I think the magic might be her.