The Nick Of Time. San Culberson

walk into the restaurant I knew that I had to speak to you before you left. I was thinking of a reason to approach your table when Marla said that some people were asking about a designer.” I raised a perfectly arched eyebrow at him.

      “Is that your way of saying that you do normally harass patrons in your restaurant?” He laughed again. Obviously he wasn’t affected by my “directness,” so I tried another tactic. I showed him my pearly whites, and then lowered my head slightly and shook it as if I was embarrassed.

      “I’m sorry if I’ve been rude. It’s just that I was a little bit tipsy that night.” I held my thumb and index finger up to make the “itty-bitty” sign and caught my bottom lip between my teeth, still revealing the top row of my pearly whites. “I decided to just put that night behind me. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to finish my meeting so that I can put it behind me also.” The expression on his face became friendlier.

      “You can tell me all about it over dinner.”

      “Tell you about what?”

      “Your meeting, why you want to put the night we had together behind you. You can tell me your shoe size, your favorite color…anything. Just have dinner with me.”

      He was very charming I had to admit, but I continued to hold firm.

      “I can’t have dinner with you.”

      “Why not? I know you’re not married, and judging from your behavior when last we met, I don’t think you have a boyfriend…or at least I hope you don’t.”

      I sighed big. I didn’t have a real reason that I couldn’t have dinner with him, and my inner voice wouldn’t stop chanting, dinner with the possibility of a screw…Go ahead what’s wrong with you? I let out another exaggerated sigh.

      “If I say that I’ll have dinner with you, will you let me take care of my business without any more interruptions?” I nodded my head back toward the general direction of my table. The light of victory was in his eyes.

      “If you promise to have dinner with me and mean it, there will be no more interruptions from me, I promise. Scout’s honor.” He held up a suspicious-looking scout sign. I suspected that he had never been a Boy Scout.

      “Okay,” I said and turned to walk away, but again, he grabbed my arm.

      “I’m going to need your name and a working phone number.” I held up one empty hand as I shook free of him.

      “I’m going to need a pen.”

      He stepped into the kitchen and after a few seconds reappeared with pen and paper. He handed it to me. I jotted down the requested information and gave it back.

      “Fiona is a beautiful name. I guess at some point you’ll feel comfortable enough to tell me the rest of it.” I had been away from my client for at least eight minutes; I had to get back. The expression on my face told him so. “I know you have to go. I’ll call you later this evening to make arrangements. I nodded my head in agreement and turned to walk away. This time he didn’t stop me.