He said everyone in the ballroom wanted something from him, and I was the first person who had not asked.
“I did ask for five minutes in a chair,” I reminded him.
“No,” he said. “I offered. There’s a difference.”
Before leaving, he asked whether he could call me.
I assumed it was politeness.
Men like Harrison Blackwell did not call women who smelled like coffee and carried blister bandages in their purses.
At eight the next morning, my phone rang.
He invited me to breakfast.
I told him I had just finished serving breakfast to other people.
“Then let someone serve you for once,” he said.
I almost refused.
Instead, I met him at a quiet bakery overlooking the harbor.
He ordered black coffee. I ordered the cheapest thing on the menu until he gently closed it and told me to choose what I actually wanted.
I chose French toast.
