Everyone Worth Knowing (29 page)

cliched reactions—shaking hands, pounding heart, dry mouth—

that could indicate only one thing: my body was telling me that I

liked Sammy or, quite possibly, that I worshipped him. Which, if

one cared to draw a parallel, was exactly how Lucinda felt right

before her first one-on-one meeting with Marcello in
The

Magnate's Tender Touch.
This was the first time I could ever remember

feeling all tingly with nervous anticipation, just like the

women in my books always did.

I felt him standing over me before I saw him, a sort of amorphous

figure in all black. And he smelled good! Like freshly baked

bread or sugar cookies or something equally as wholesome. He

probably stood there for thirty seconds, staring at me stare at my

Filofax, before I finally mustered the nerve to look up, just as he

cleared his throat.

"Hey," I said.

"Hey," he said right back. He was unconsciously rubbing at

what appeared to be a flour stain on his black pants, but he

stopped when he noticed me watching.

"Uh, would you like to sit down?" I stammered, wondering

why it was utterly impossible for me to make one intelligible or coherent

statement.

"Sure. I, uh, I just thought it might be easier to do this in person

since I was, uh, right across the street, you know?" It was comforting

that he didn't sound much better.

"Yeah, definitely, it makes perfect sense. Did you say you were

just coming from class? Are you taking a bartending course? I've al-

ways wanted to do that!" I was rambling now, but I couldn't help

it. "It just seems like it'd be the most useful thing, whether or not

you actually work in a bar. I don't know. It'd be nice to know how

to mix a decent drink or something. You know?"

He smiled for the first time, a megawatt ear-to-ear shiner, and I

thought I might just cease living if he ever stopped. "No, it's not for

bartending, it's for pastry-making," he said.

It didn't make much sense that the bouncer was into pastries,

but I thought it was nice that he had outside interests. After all,

aside from the nightly ego rush of rejecting people based on appearance

alone, I imagined it got pretty boring.

"Oh, really? Interesting. Do you cook a lot in your free time?" I

was only asking to be polite, which, unfortunately, came across

loud and clear in my voice. I rushed on. "I mean, is that a particular

passion of yours?"

"Passion?" He grinned again. "I'm not sure I would call it a

'passion,' but yeah, I like to cook. And I sort of have to, for

work."

Ohmigod. I couldn't believe he'd called me out for using that

ridiculous word,
passion.

"You
have
to?" It came out sounding downright snotty. "I'm

sorry, I didn't mean it like that. Where do you cook?"

"I'm studying to be a chef, actually," he said, diverting his eyes

from mine.

This was a new and interesting development. "A chef? Really?

Where?"

"Well, nowhere yet, really. I already graduated from CIA and

I'm taking a few classes at night. Like pastry-making." He laughed.

"How'd you get into that?"

"I'm not particularly into it, but it's good to know. Aside from

making omelet dinners growing up when it was my turn, I didn't

really ever cook. I lived in Ithaca for a summer in high school with

a buddy and worked as a waiter at the Statler Hotel on Cornell's

campus. One day the general manager saw me refilling a guest's

coffee by holding the carafe almost four feet above the cup and

freaked out—he loved it. He convinced me to apply to the hotel

school there. He got me a few scholarships, and I worked the

whole time—busboy, waiter, night manager, bartender, you name

it—and when I graduated he hooked me up with a yearlong apprenticeship

at a Michelin-starred restaurant in France. It was entirely

his doing."

I was vaguely aware that my mouth was quite unattractively

hanging open in shock at this information, but Sammy graciously

saved me from myself by continuing.

"You're probably wondering why I'm working as a bouncer at

Bungalow, huh?" He grinned.

"No, not at all. Whatever works for you. Um, I mean, it's just a

different side of the hospitality industry, right?"

"I'm paying my dues now. I've worked in what feels like every

imaginable restaurant in this city." He laughed. "But it'll be worth it

when I finally open my own place. Hopefully it'll be sooner rather

than later."

I must have still looked confused because he just laughed.

"Well, clearly the first and foremost reason is the money. You can

actually make a decent living piecing together a few security and

bartending gigs, and I have a bunch of that stuff going on. It keeps

me from going out at night and spending, so I stick it out. Everyone

says there's nothing like opening a restaurant in this city. I've

been told it's really important to know all the social politics, from

who's sleeping with whom to who's really important and who's

just pretending they're a player. It doesn't really interest me, but I

don't exactly run with that crowd, so there's no better way than to

watch them in their native environments."

He clamped a hand over his mouth and peered at me. "Look, I

probably shouldn't have said all that. I didn't mean any offense to

you and your friends, it's just that—"

Love. All-consuming and overwhelming love. It was all I could

do not to grab his face and kiss him full on the mouth . . . he

looked so horrified.

"Seriously, don't say another word," I said. I moved my hand to

touch his reassuringly, but I lost my nerve at the last minute and

my fingers ended up awkwardly suspended above the table. Lu-

cinda from
Magnate
would've been cool enough to pull off that

move, but I, apparently, was not. "I think it's really great what

you're doing. I can't imagine some of the things you must see

every night. Ridiculous stuff, right?"

It was all he needed to hear. "Christ, it's incredible. All those

people—they have so much money and so much time and don't

seem to want to do anything but beg me to let them into these

clubs every night," he said. His eyes met mine.

"It's got to be kind of fun, though, isn't it? I mean, people fall

all over themselves trying to be nice to you," I managed, too distracted

by his gaze to think straight.

"Oh, come on, Bette, we both know it's hardly like that. They

kiss my ass because they need me, not because they know anything

about me or like me as a person. I have a very short shelf life

for respect and likability—namely, the few minutes between the

time they arrive and the time they walk inside. They wouldn't remember

my name if they saw me anywhere away from that velvet

rope."

The look of distress returned to his face, and I noticed how his

forehead wrinkled when he frowned, and it only made him cuter.

He sighed and I had a bizarre desire to hug him. "I have such a big

mouth. Forget everything I just said. I really don't take the job all

that seriously, so I shouldn't make it sound like it's a bigger deal

than it really is. It's just a means to an end, and I can put up with

anything if it'll get me closer to my restaurant one day."

I was desperate for him to keep talking, saying anything about

anyone just so I could continue to watch his perfect face and examine

the way his mouth moved and his hands gestured, but he

was finished. When I opened my mouth to tell him that I understood

exactly what he meant and had never really thought of it

from that perspective, he gently cut me off. "I guess you're just

easy to talk to," he said and smiled so sweetly that I had to remind

myself to breathe. "I'd appreciate if you didn't mention any of this

stuff to anyone at your office. It's just easier for me to do what 1

need to do without everyone, well, uh, you know."

I sure did know. Without everyone knowing where you came

from and where you were going, trying to decide at every moment

if you fell into their own personal "worth knowing" or "safe not to

acknowledge" categories. Without everyone angling for position or

trying to manipulate the situation to their own benefit or slowly but

surely chipping away at your confidence because it made them

feel better about themselves. Uncle Will was joking when he always

said, "If you can't have, discredit," but most of this crowd

weren't. Yes, I got it, loud and clear.

"Of course. Totally. I understand completely. I, uh, I think it's

really cool what you're doing," I said.

Another blinding smile. Ah! I tried to think of something, anything,

I could say that would elicit another smile, but one of us finally

remembered that we were there on business.

He seemed completely recovered from any moment of vulnerability

when he said, "I'm getting a coffee, and then we can figure

out the event details. Can I get you something?"

I shook my head and pointed to my coffee cup.

"No grande sugar-free vanilla extra-hot no-whip skim latte?"

I laughed and shook my head again.

"What? You think I'm kidding? I actually order that fucking

drink every time I come here."

"You do not."

"I do, I swear I do. I made it through twenty-some years of life

being perfectly fine with a cup of regular coffee. Sometimes I had

it light and sweet, and sometimes late at night I asked for it decaf,

but it was definitely just coffee. Then a friend mentioned how

good lattes were. Soon after that a girl from school announced that

adding flavoring made it even better. The rest of it just followed,

and it's gotten totally out of hand. I wish, just once, they'd refuse

to make the damn thing, just say, 'Get ahold of yourself, Sammy.

Be a man and drink a goddamn cup of regular coffee.' But they

never do and, alas, neither do I." And with that, he was off.

I watched as the barista flashed him an undeniable I'm-yoursfor-

the-taking smile. I don't think I blinked the entire time he was

gone, and I audibly exhaled when he reclaimed his seat next

to me.

"Okay, enough confessional for one day. Should we get this

party worked out?" He brushed the back of his head, and I

couldn't help thinking that I'd seen him do that a million times before.

"Sure. What first?" I sipped my coffee and concentrated on

looking cool and professional.

"How many did you say the event is for?"

"I'm not exactly sure, since I haven't put together a finalized list

yet"—or any list, for that matter, but he didn't need to know that—

"but I'm thinking it'll be in the area of a couple hundred."

"And will Kelly & Company be bringing in its own people for

everything or using ours?"

Again, not something I'd considered yet, but I tried to think