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“Excuse me, I think my boyfriend is under your table.”
I hold extremely still and crouch in a little ball under the round wooden table. The white tablecloth nearly touches the floor, but I can see the tip of Gertrude’s high heels and Raphael’s brown wingtips behind her.
“If you don’t mind, I’m just going to look.”
I close my eyes. How did my life come to this? How did I go from an incredibly successful, well-respected businessman to a disaster covered in cake crouched under a table? It’s embarrassing.
I wait for the tablecloth to lift up, but it doesn’t.
I move back but the woman at the table kicks me. I grunt and then hold still.
Wait a minute.
I recognize those shoes.
“Don’t you dare,” a woman with a southern drawl a mile wide says. “My husband is under this table giving me the French tickle, it’s our honeymoon, and I always wanted a little tongue bath in public. Ah ah. Back away from the tablecloth, missy.”
A grin spreads across my face. She’s absurd, she’s obscene, she’s the best.
I could kiss her.
“If you lift this tablecloth this whole restaurant and all them old ladies will see my hoo-ha. That’ll ruin their appetites. Or it’ll make ’em jealous. Either way.”
“My treasure,” Raphael says, “the lady says the man you saw is her husband.”
“But…but I swear I saw Nathaniel. I don’t know why he’s here. I told him not to come,” Gertrude says.
“Well, that settles it. You couldn’t have seen a Nathaniel. My husband’s name is Devon.”
I stifle a surprised laugh and Izzy kicks at me again.
“Now, if you’ll please excuse us, I’d like to get back to it. We only live once, ya know.”
She rescued me.