I've already been waiting for twenty minutes by the time he shows up.
Not he, my blind date, as I'd hoped when the hostess began walking this way, but he, the man the hostess leads to the small table next to mine, the man who murmurs a polite, accented, "Excuse me," as he edges sideways between our two tables and slides across the bench running along the back wall of the restaurant. The same bench I'm sitting on, trying not to fiddle with the stupid daisy lying limp on the white tablecloth next to my second glass of water.
The hostess offers me a sympathetic smile and a half shrug after handing the man his menu. I'm sorry this hottie isn't for you, she seems to say. She's a sweet girl, young, and doesn't deserve the scowl I feel rising up to my lips. I refrain, somehow, managing a brief, tight smile before the blonde walks back to the hostess stand. A female server walks up to her and whispers something in her ear, and then they both glance back at me, shake their heads, and giggle behind handfuls of menus as they consider the man next to me.
I might have to start plucking petals from this flower.
Only the somewhat insane idea that my date might still show keeps my fingers from shredding the blossom.
The calling card was my idea, not his. I'm not a mushy person by anyone's standard (depressingly practical, my son would say), but I have a soft spot for You've Got Mail and Meg Ryan's affinity for the "friendliest flower". A small bouquet of daisies guards the small table in my foyer that collects mail, car keys, and winter gloves and hats. Today I'd plucked the healthiest looking bloom from the white vase and threaded it through the top buttonhole of my red pea coat to keep it safe on the drive over.
Of course now I'm glad I decided against the rather cliche single rose as my identifier. There aren't any other tables with flowers on them, but at least my daisy doesn't scream, "I've been stood up by a stranger!" to anyone looking my way.
Except the hostess. Who's spying on me again, her smile toeing the line into the realm of pity.
I will not have a giggly twenty-something feel sorry for me.
Before I can do anything other than seethe in silence, Andrew, the urbane young man waiting on my table, strides over to the man seated near me to take his drink order.
"I'll just have a water to start with, thanks," the man says, still scanning the menu propped in his lap. "I'm waiting on someone else to arrive."
"As you wish, sir," Andrew says. He steps over to the other side of my table. "Another water for you, ma'am?"
"Oh, I think we're past the point of water. What do you know about the cocktails here?" Twenty minutes late means having a drink without my date is no longer rude.
"Anything I don't know I can find out. Shoot."
"Tell you what. You go find out if your bartender makes a whiskey sour with actual lemons or that disgusting 'sour mix', and if it's the former I'll take one of those."
"And if it's the latter?"
"Bring me one anyway, but know that my opinion of this establishment will forever be tarnished."
"Yes, ma'am," Andrew says, flashing a row of very straight, white teeth before vanishing toward the bar.
The man next to me chuckles.
"Is there a hidden joke in the daily specials?" I ask, a little peeved to have been eavesdropped on, even if there was no way he could not have heard what I was saying. There's only a foot or two of space between us at best.
"Apologies," the man says. He closes the menu and slides it across the table with both hands until its edge aligns with the table's. "I couldn't help but overhear you."
"Third party laughter."
"I'm sorry?"
"Third party laughter. When someone who's not included in the conversation laughs at something said."
"Ah, yes, well, then I'm guilty as charged. My name's Robin," he says, holding a hand out.
"Regina." I shake his hand, and then fold my arms on the table again.
Must not dismantle flower. Must not dismantle flower in front of man who is not my date, who is waiting on his own date, who is setting off white hot pings of attraction in my chest.
Andrew returns with my whiskey sour and Robin's water. I take a sip and nod. No sour mix here, thank goodness. Andrew smiles and hurries off to fetch another table's order. He reminds me of Henry, a little. Same dark hair, and even though he's older than Henry he still has that hint of a boyish smile, a tiny jaunt to his step.
Robin's phone rings, clattering against the silverware. "Excuse me, this is my date, I believe."
"Of course," I murmur. The pang of jealousy in my gut is only because his date had the decency to call and let him know she was running late. Emma should have given me Mystery Date's phone number.
I pull my phone from my purse and thumb the power button. A text message lights the screen. My heart double jumps, but then I see it's only Henry being nosy, asking how my date is going. Bless his heart, he was more excited about today than I was, and I can't bear to break his heart by telling him his mother's been stood up. Again.
I'm fine, Henry. Did you clean your room?
Next to me, Robin has shifted his body away from me to have his conversation. I shouldn't listen. I really can't help it, though. If he'd wanted privacy, he should have gone outside.
"Yes, of course. I understand. Some other time, perhaps."
He slides his knees back under the table and slips his phone into his jacket pocket, blowing air through his teeth. "It would figure the one time I arrive early for a date, she cancels."
"Are you habitually late?"
"Alas, I'm afraid so."
"Then I'd call that karma."
"She's a real bitch. You should steer clear of her."
My laugh startles me. He smiles, bites his bottom lip for a moment, and then shakes his head, returning his attention to his drink, sliding his fingers along the sweaty curves of glass.
My phone buzzes, and I jump, hoping I'm not blushing and that my transfixion with the movements of his hand has gone unnoticed.
He bites his bottom lip again and smirks, still fiddling with his glass. Wonderful. I turn to my phone and read Henry's response.
Room is clean. Can Grace come over?
Oh, he knows better than that. I huff and tap out a response.
With no adults at home? Nice try.
He claims Grace is just a friend, and I believe him, but I also see the way she looks at him and the way he looks at her, and I don't think that line is going to remain uncrossed for long. Grace is sweet, polite, and intelligent, but I was all those things once, too, and I remember the headyness of being fifteen and knowing everything and nothing all at once.
"Your date?" Robin asks when I've set down my phone. He sips his water and then sets it down, makes a show of folding his hands on the table, several inches away from the glass. Cheeky bastard.
"No, my son."
His eyebrows raise. "You have a son? So do I. How old is your boy?"
"Fifteen going on thirty."
"There must be a mistake." He frowns, leans back, squints at me as though looking into a bright light. "There's no way a woman as young as yourself has a son that old."
A smirk tugs the right corner of my mouth. "And how old do you think I am?"
"Not a day over twenty-eight," he says without any hesitation.
"Try thirty-four."
"An older woman. I like that. And one who's not ashamed of her age."
"I earned every one of those years. Don't try to shortchange me."
"I wouldn't dream of it," he says, holding his hands up in surrender.
My phone lights up again, this time with two text messages, one from Henry and one from Emma. I check Henry's first.
Worth a shot. Don't do anything I'm not allowed to do!
I shake my head, a little embarrassed at his insinuation, but Emma's message confirms Henry's advice is unnecessary.
Your date just got called into emergency surgery. I told you he was a doctor, right? Sorry!
She'd gone out and found me the one person on the planet busier than I am. Figures.
"It's official. I'm calling this date a bust," I say, laying my phone face down on the table.
If I head home now, I can be there in time to cook Henry dinner instead of letting him order pizza, and then he can invite Grace over and maybe I can get the full scoop on what's going on between them. My teenager has a more promising love life than I do. Depressing. And not something I want to think about right now.
"You're not leaving, are you?" Robin asks as I begin pulling my belongings together.
I pause, one arm already in the sleeve of my coat, the other raised to tug it over my shoulder. "Well, I…."
"Stay," Robin says. "We've both been stood up. We have a rapport going. You find me intriguing and I quite frankly think you're adorable."
"Oh, I do?"
And you do?
He nods. "Very much. And as I've already paid my babysitter for the afternoon, I'd much rather enjoy the company of a beautiful, funny, strong woman such as yourself than dine on my own."
I shrug my arm out of my sleeve, leaving the coat pooled behind me on the bench. "You can't have gotten all of that about me from the five minutes of conversation we've had."
"Perhaps not, but I'm willing to bet that with some additional conversation and a little food to balance out the rush of attraction my assumptions will be proven correct."
Now I know I'm blushing. He's arrogant, yes, but charming in a way that doesn't grate as much as it should.
You were going to have lunch with a complete stranger, a friend of Emma's, no less, and now you want to run from the handsome, willing man sitting next to you? This is why Henry is worried about you, Regina. You have no sense.
"Ok," I say.
"Ok?"
"That's what I said." He's surprised I've said yes. Interesting.
"Excellent. Your table or mine?"
"Mine," I say, settling back into the bench, crossing my legs under the table and my arms across my chest. "I've been here longer."
"As milady wishes," Robin says, and as he moves from his table to mine, I catch a whiff of his cologne again, light and outdoorsy, and the scent takes me back to my days jumping horses in the mountains at summer camp. Fond memories of where I met Henry's late father, but ones I don't revisit often. Today it doesn't bother me, though, because Robin is sitting across from me now and he's smiling, and for some unknown, intrinsic reason my heart is glad to have found myself in this moment with him.
"Hello, my name is Robin Locksley," he says, holding out his hand again.
I smirk, lean forward, and take his hand. "I'm Regina Mills."
Instead of the handshake from earlier, he turns my hand and presses his lips to my fingers, his blonde stubble rough against my skin. "Pleased to meet you, Ms. Mills." His eyes never leave mine as speaks, and where I'd first seen them as an icy blue, they're heated now, quickened into blue flame.
Later I'll blame the shiver that passed through me as an errant draft in the room, but I can't pass off my voice lowering half an octave as I respond, "The pleasure is all mine," with anything other than unguarded attraction.
He smiles, squeezes my hand, and I can't help but wonder if perhaps Henry's warning will be necessary after all.
Wouldn't that be something.
Thanks for reading! Drop me a note and let me know what you thought! Especially if you liked/disliked the first person pov. I know it turns some people off, but for some reason this story refused to be written any other way.