Table for One

The Rubenesque, dark-haired waitress eyed the reservations list for the evening and hummed approvingly. “Mmm-hmm. He’s coming in again tonight at eight. But then, it is Thursday – his usual night.”

Instead of looking up to see what or who Paulette was babbling about, Ginny continued to write the evening’s dinner specials on the chalkboard. “Who are you talking about?” she asked rather disinterestedly. Because honestly, she wasn’t interested in any of the regulars, the vast majority of whom were plump, older men with ruddy complexions, smelly cigars, and nagging wives at home.

Paulette clicked her tongue and sighed. “You know. Him.” Carrying the reservations log over to her oblivious coworker, she pointed at his name. “See? Right there. Draco Malfoy, eight o’clock. Table for one.”

“So?” Ginny’s expression looked as if she had taken a bite of something sour.

“Well . . . ” The other waitress quickly thumbed through the previous weeks’ pages of names and times, counting to herself. “This is four, five, six Thursdays in a row, same table every week – and with that tables comes his usual waitress. His favorite,” she added in a soft, suggestive whisper.

At this, Ginny finally turned around. She scoffed and put down her chalk. “Me? His favorite? Are you daft? I sloshed him in the face with ale last week!”

“I know you did. I was there.” Paulette whisked the reservations log back to its place on the podium by the front door and pretended to be studying it with great interest. A few minutes later, she snickered to herself.

“What are you on about?” the redhead asked her suspiciously.

“Oh, Ginny, after you doused him . . . well, you should have seen how he grinned when you walked off to go refill his mug.”

She returned to her writing and said casually, “I don’t think so. He hates me as much as I hate him.”

“That’s not true. You do know why he always sits at one of your tables?”

“Yes. So I have to serve him, so he can have at least one night a week when he can humiliate me. It must be the highlight of his miserable existence!”

Paulette guffawed. “No, you silly twit – to ogle you!”

Ginny rolled her eyes at such rubbish. She banished the chalk then lifted a tray that was crowded with plates and mugs from lunch. Once she had balanced it into position, she moved it cautiously with her wand into the kitchen so Nathan could scourgify them to prepare for the dinner rush.

Paulette followed her toward the two deep sinks at the back of the kitchen. As they moved along, the redhead assured her, “Well, if you are right – which you’re not – he’ll be terribly disappointed tonight. I’m leaving at seven.”

“Are you sure? Mr. Upton doesn’t usually give anyone two evenings off in a row, and you did slip out early yesterday,” she said, sounding annoyingly like Hermione Granger.

For a moment, Ginny lost her concentration, causing her to accidentally set the tray down a bit too forcefully. “Last night was an emergency!” she insisted. A quick spell from her coworker kept a few of the items from toppling off the tray and smashing to the ground.

“Your mum’s 55th birthday party hardly qualifies as an ‘emergency’,” Mr. Upton snipped, inserting himself into the conversation as he swept through the doors and into the rather stifling room. Thankfully, he brought a light breeze in with him as he did.

“Mr. Upton, do you know how hard it is to get six brothers and all their wives in the same place at one time? And I’m the only daughter – I had to go! My mother will only turn 55 once.”

The restauranteur looked at her with a cynical eye and exhaled heavily. “Be that as it may, your presence is required here tonight. One of our best customers is coming in, and he has requested his usual table.”

“So I’ve heard,” she replied, casting a sharp glance at Paulette, who looked away sheepishly.

“Which, I don’t think I need to remind you, is in your station. Now, he has graciously chosen to overlook the spilled ale incident and give us – you, rather – another chance. Do you think you can handle it?”

“Yes, sir,” Ginny grumbled. “I just don’t want to.” She practically stomped out of the kitchen, pouting and looking more like five-year-old child than a woman of 23. After she left, Paulette snorted and chuckled loudly.

Mr. Upton sneered at her. “Don’t you have some work to do?” he asked her cantankerously.

She blushed and looked down. “Yes, sir.”

The proprietor glared at her until she too had left the room. “Weasley! Get your scrawny arse back in here!”

Later that evening, Paulette noticed that Ginny was in a bit of a state. “What’s the matter?” she hissed at her as she joined her behind the bar to draw two glasses of Dragon Tail Lager. “There are customers everywhere. Now wipe off that scowl this instant!”

“I can’t – I’m furious!”

Her baffled coworker said sarcastically, “Well, I can see that. But what’s the problem?” Then she did a double-take at Ginny’s appearance. “Did you loosen the top of your bodice? Oh, God, you did. You’re actually showing some cleavage!”

“Would you please stop–?” she began then paused. “All right, I am. It was that troll of a boss, Mr. Upton’s idea.”

Paulette appraised her once more. “Well, it is an improvement,” she said honestly, raising her tray up to shoulder level. With a shrug and a slight smirk, she added, “Might help with your tips tonight. Oh, look. Here comes your favorite customer now.” She winked and shot a wicked grin in Ginny’s direction then mouthed, “Good luck,” before turning to deliver the lagers.

“Good evening, Weasley,” the new arrival greeted her rather gruffly. Draco Malfoy looked down his nose at her, as he had always done.

Attempting a spot of nonverbal magic, she tried to draw the strings of her bodice up a bit tighter so he couldn’t see directly into her bra. But the spell went nowhere, as the ties remained loose.

At least I didn’t reverse it, she thought gratefully. Then she asked him with strained politeness, “Usual table for one, Mr. Malfoy?”

He slipped off his gloves as he drawled, “That depends. Are you going to be civil tonight?”

She didn’t trust herself to answer.

“This way,” was all she said.

Menu in hand, Ginny led him to his table. He took his seat, and she placed the menu in front of him. He reached out to take it from her, but instead clasped his hand around her wrist and forearm, pulling her down toward the table. He fought a smile as he noticed the way her breasts practically spilled out of her top.

Good God, he thought as he sought to burn the image into his memory. It was quickly replaced with a vision of her sprawled across his bed, inviting him to join her, her fiery mane draped over the edges of his forest green sheets.

Beautiful.

The view was positively obscene and left little to the imagination. A tingle of excitement he couldn’t ignore rushed to the front of his trousers. Draco looked up at her face, his eyes meeting hers.

“I said: Are you going to be civil tonight?” he repeated.

“I’ll do my best – sir.” Loosing her wrist from his grip, she straightened herself and offered to take his drink order.

“Ale. And this time, I’d like it in a mug, if you don’t mind.”

Ginny said sweetly, “Don’t do anything to set me off, and your request shall be granted.” She turned around swiftly and headed for the bar to fill his order.

When she returned, she set the mug in front of him carefully.

“See? That wasn’t so hard,” he jeered. He took a long pull of his drink and sighed while she waited, quill at the ready, prepared to jot down his dinner order. He sighed contentedly and smiled. “I always said you Weasleys could be taught manners. You’ve only been here, what? Seven, eight years? I’d say you’re doing quite well.”

“Four and a half. And for your information, Malfoy,” she spat, “I had manners long before I started working here.” He glared at her in silence; she merely smiled at him. “Now, what can I get you for dinner tonight . . . sir?”

Draco requested one of the house specialties, an exquisite prime rib. He declined an appetizer, but asked for a small salad and a cup of soup. It wasn’t long before his meal was in front of him. Ginny set the plate of prime rib down gingerly so as not to spill any of the juices it was swimming in. He licked his lips in response. He honestly couldn’t decide which looked better – the main course or the smoldering hot witch who was serving it.

All the while, she was thinking, If I can just make it for another 20 minutes or so, maybe the boss will let me go on home. At least the bastard tips well.

After his third – or was it his fourth? – mug of ale, Draco was feeling a bit more relaxed. He had backed off the insults, even attempted to make polite small talk with her now and then.

When his plate was practically empty, she offered to remove it from his table. She levitated the dessert tray under his nose to see if she could tempt his sweet tooth. The more he ordered, the bigger the tip, the more pleased Mr. Upton would be – and the greater chance she’d get to go home soon. She’d been on her feet all day!

“Will there be anything else, Mr. Malfoy?” It was time to go in for the kill and bump up her tip.

“No.” She started to leave but then he spoke again. “You know, Weasley, I was thinking of how we two have always quarreled and just, you know, not gotten on well.”

She cringed. Oh, God. He’s pissed.

“Sometimes it makes me think of . . . I say, are you familiar with the works of William Shakespeare?”

She closed her eyes for a split second and shook her head.

“What?” Ginny asked him in disbelief, lifting what few items remained in front of him but leaving his half-empty mug.

“Shhhakespeare,” he slurred, pointing his finger in the air. “You know, the Muggle playwright? Of course, he’s been dead for centuries, but they still regard him very highly.”

She couldn’t resist. She knew it wasn’t fair, as he was rather tossed. But she had to ask.

“And since when does Draco Malfoy, a Pureblood’s Pureblood, read anything written by a . . . Muggle?”

“Oh, don’t get your knickers in a twist. Snape had nearly all his works. He gave them to me when he, uh, you know.” He paused. “When he died.”

“I see. And what is it about Shakespeare you want to tell me?”

“He wrote plays.” Draco snickered.

Ginny surmised that the ale was really kicking in. And it was definitely four mugs, perhaps even five.

He went on. “I was just thinking how our relationship is rather like the one in ‘Much Ado About Nothing’.”

“We have a ‘relationship’? You and me? And it compares to something by Shakespeare?” She had to laugh; this had to be one of the strangest conversations she’d ever been in.

“Well, yeah, we’re somewhat like the main characters. I insult you, you snipe back, each of us thinking we’re cleverer than the other.”

Ginny raised an eyebrow and smirked at him. “Really? And who are the main characters?”

Looking at her as if she were incredibly thick, he said, “You know, Beatrice and Benedick.”

“Well, since you’ve been a dick as long as I can remember, at least the name fits.” He looked at her, mildly stunned. She smiled again. “Will that be all, Mr. Malfoy, or will you be wanting dessert?”

“Dessert? No, thanks. Doesn’t mix well with ale. But,” he said, looking at her chest and licking his lips, “I would like a bit more cheesecake, if you don’t mind. Could you please just – lean over the table once more?”

Sighing, she tore his ticket off her order pad and placed it on the table next to his gloves.

He grabbed her hand before she could fully pull away. Finally having gotten enough liquid courage to ask what had been niggling at his mind since he first dined at her table, he said, “Weasley? Maybe next time, I could have a table for two? Perhaps you’d care to join me?”

Grinning to herself, she snickered. “Good night, Mr. Malfoy. See you next week.”

~The End~