The C.e.o.'S Unplanned Proposal

Ilsa’s eyebrows went up in pleasant surprise. “Really? How did that work out?”

The waitress straightened with a bounce, as if she had springs on her feet, lifted her hands above her head and did a dainty pirouette…neatly sidestepping a collision with a waiter who had plates of food balanced from fingertip to shoulder. “Oops,” she said, with an unrepentant lift of one shoulder and a flash of smile. “Didn’t mean to scare you, Charlie.”

The waiter frowned. So did Adam. “Would it be possible to get something to drink?” he asked.

“These are tight quarters, but you get the idea,” Katie said to Ilsa.

“All that from one lesson?”

“Two.”

“I’m impressed. You may become a ballerina, after all.”

“One pirouette after two lessons doesn’t exactly qualify me as the teacher’s pet.”

Ilsa appeared delighted with the exchange and oblivious to the fact that this was a restaurant and this pixie was supposed to be their waitress.

Adam cleared his throat and pitched his voice above the conversational roar in the room…on the generous assumption that the waitress hadn’t heard his original request. “I’d like to order now, if that’s all right with you.”

She looked at him, a wisp of dark hair curling like a wayward ribbon across her cheek, her blue eyes questioning the impatience in his tone. “Well, sure,” she said. “But don’t you want to peruse the menu first?”

“I’ve perused,” he said, thinking there would be serious consequences—and rightly so—if the manager caught her pirouetting and carrying on lengthy conversations with customers instead of getting their orders. “I’ll have the chicken reuben sandwich, no chips, and we’ll start with the artichoke dip appetizer.” He smiled encouragingly at Ilsa. “What would you like, Mrs. Fairchild?”

She looked thoughtfully from him to the waitress. “I’m going to need a couple of minutes to decide,” she said.

“Sure thing,” Katie pronounced brightly. “Take your time. I’ll find John.” Her smile flipped to Adam. Cheeky little thing. He’d have fired her on the spot. “He’s your waiter. My tables are over there.” She tossed her head to indicate the section behind them. “Bye, Mrs. If. Enjoy your…dip.”

She sashayed away, the bounce evident in her light steps, a saucy swing to her hips, a dash of sass in the sway of her long, frizzy ponytail. Halfway through the maze of tables and people, she paused to exchange words with a tall, blond guy—the elusive John, perhaps—and then she laughed, the melodic waterfall of sound drifting back to Adam like the call of the wild.

“She always waits on me when I come in,” Ilsa said.

“Not today, apparently.” Adam realized with a start that he’d been staring after the waitress and brought his gaze firmly back under control. Waitstaff should be unobtrusive, efficient without encroaching, friendly, but never personal. The little elf failed on all accounts. “I take it, she’s an aspiring dancer?”

Ilsa laughed. “She said she was disenchanted with kickboxing and I suggested ballet as an alternative discipline. I’m actually quite astonished she took a class.”

“Two classes,” Adam corrected and wondered why he remembered such trivia since the little brunette was now out of sight and nearly forgotten. He seldom, if ever, paid that much attention to the wait-staff in a restaurant like this one. They were, after all, constantly changing and all too often, more intrusive than helpful. He determinedly put her from his mind. “Tell me about yourself, Mrs. Fairchild. My grandfather says you have a small business. A public relations firm, I believe, called…IF Enterprises?”

She did not seem surprised to discover he’d done his research, but then she undoubtedly knew he had employees who did nothing but ferret out such details for him. It was the way he kept abreast of the hundreds of bits of information he needed to know daily. The only way he could survive in his fast-paced, high-stakes world.

“My business is more personal relations than public, although I like to think my endeavors contribute to the overall good of society, too. Everything is related, you know, regardless of how we try to separate one thing from another. Don’t you agree, Adam?”

“Absolutely.” Adam agreed, his attention already divided. He often tracked two separate and disparate trains of thought at once. It was as natural to him as breathing, and equally essential, in his view. It was a skill he’d learned at an early age by observing his grandfather or perhaps simply by virtue of growing up in an environment where private, public and social lives were so strictly differentiated. He did it without a second thought, he did it extremely well, and he was completely confident Mrs. Fairchild had no idea she wasn’t the exact centered focus of his universe at the moment. “Making connections of one sort or another is a big part of what I do every day.”

Ilsa smiled. “Me, too.”

A waiter arrived. “Hi, my name is John. I’ll be your server today.” He set two glasses of water on the table and took their lunch order without undue interruption. He was, in Adam’s view, a considerable improvement over the ballerina. After that, the conversation drifted into a rather loud, if easy, rundown of mutual acquaintances, society events and who had escorted whom and where. If he hadn’t known Mrs. Fairchild was a widow of long standing and had no children, Adam might have believed she had the ulterior motives of a mother with a marriageable daughter. He had plenty of experience in the art of outmaneuvering debutantes and their, ofttimes, forceful mothers. It came with the territory of being an eligible bachelor. But Ilsa seemed not so much interested in his views on matrimony as in what interested him about his life and the society in which he moved. Time and again, she steered the conversation back to him, answering his questions with questions of her own, eliciting his likes, dislikes and opinions he didn’t often volunteer. She was skillful in the art of conversation, artful in the way she kept the focus on him, and as she never came within a nuance of getting too personal, he remained perfectly at ease with her.

The appetizer came, accompanied by a fresh peal of the distracting laughter and although he felt the delight of it like the first taste of a good wine, Adam pretended to notice nothing out of the ordinary.

“She has the best laugh in the world.” Ilsa said, as if anyone would dare dispute it.

“The pirouetting waitress?” Adam instantly regretted the admission that he’d not only noticed, but had connected the glorious laughter to the bobbing brunette.

Ilsa nodded. “She’s a very interesting young woman.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” He didn’t doubt Ilsa’s assessment, even if he did think it odd for her to take such an interest in a waitress at The Torrid Tomato. Not that there was anything wrong with being a waitress, of course. It was just an unusual friendship for any close family friend of his grandfather’s. Certainly not one he, himself, would be inclined to pursue. “Are you on the library’s fund-raising committee again this year?” he asked, showing that he could turn the topic as adroitly as she.

“It seems to, again, be my turn to chair,” she said and from there, the conversation resumed a cadence and content Adam could follow without half trying. At one point, it occurred to him to wonder if Ilsa might be more than just a friend of the family, if she might, in fact, be in the lineup as a future stepmother. But Adam and his brothers had long since given up making predictions about the women who came and went in their father’s life and, at the moment, there was already a new fiancée in the picture. Which was not to say Ilsa might not make the running next time around, but if Archer had hopes of introducing her as a potential daughter-in-law, he hadn’t expressed that wish to his grandsons. Unless that’s what this lunch date had been set up to accomplish. James had never asked his father or his sons for an opinion about his future brides though, so Adam dismissed the speculation from his mind and simply enjoyed the somewhat maternal warmth in Ilsa’s smiles and the artichoke dip, which was surprisingly good. He ordered a to-go quart for Ilsa, despite her protests, and wondered aloud if he should check into getting some for Archer’s seventy-ninth birthday party.

“You’re having a party for him?” Ilsa asked. “Is it a surprise?”

“Only to me,” Adam answered with a rueful smile. “Bryce loves parties and one excuse is as good as another to host one as far as he’s concerned. He decided that since Grandfather wouldn’t hear of having a party the last two years, we’d celebrate twice as hard this year. Bryce set the day, the time and the magnitude, but working out the details was, as usual, left to me. Peter, my youngest brother, offered to step in and help me out, but he’s spending quite a bit of time out of pocket these days, on site at the construction of the Braddock Properties’ Atlanta-based operations. Peter’s an architect, you know.”

She nodded. “I read about him…and the Atlanta project…just recently in the Providence Journal.”

“I’m very proud of Peter. We all are.”

Her smile was warm and genuine. “So the planning of your grandfather’s birthday party falls to you, by default.”

“Actually, to the party planner of my choosing. Unfortunately, the events coordinator we’ve used in the past has now officially retired…a direct result, in my opinion, of our last party, when Bryce decided he would handle everything.” Adam shook his head, wishing as he always did that his brother would pay a token regard to the small details that comprised a meaningful life. “I keep intending to speak to my secretary about finding someone, but social events have never been high on my priority list and so far, I’ve forgotten to mention it.”

He sipped his water and contemplated whether there was a polite way to make a grab for the last bit of artichoke dip. He decided not to be greedy and realized in the same breath a countermeasure for any hesitancy Wallace might have for accepting the initial offer for his manufacturing company. Despite the noise—unusually rowdy, even for The Torrid Tomato—Adam realized he was enjoying his lunch with Ilsa Fairchild.

“I know an events planner,” Ilsa said. “I think you’d like her and she’s very dependable. I’ll warn you, though, she’s extravagantly expensive, but worth every penny. I’ll get her name and number for you, if you’d like.”

“Great.” Adam couldn’t help himself. He spread the last of the artichoke dip across the last triangle of toasted bread and popped it into his mouth. Delicious. Maybe he’d been too hasty in his assessment of this restaurant.

“Hi, again.” The waitress with the frizzy ponytail returned, dropping into her bouncy squat as if she’d only just vacated the spot. “I just remembered something,” she said. To Ilsa. She seemed barely aware Adam was even present at the same table. “The Tai Chi class starts next Monday and you really should call if you’re interested. I don’t have the phone number with me, but I could bring it to work Thursday, if you’re going to be in for lunch.”

Ilsa reached for her purse. “Why don’t you give me your phone number and I’ll call you later to get the information. I’d hate to miss out because the class filled up before I had a chance to call. Would you mind?”

“Not a bit,” the waitress said as if the answer was so obvious as to be unnecessary. Then, unexpectedly, her blue eyes came to rest with an unsettling clarity on Adam. “What about you? Any interest in Tai Chi? It’s supposed to be remarkably beneficial for anyone with arthritis or a stiff neck.”

“No, thanks,” he said coolly, willing the manager to appear and make her go away, wondering if she thought he looked like he needed more exercise. His hand automatically lifted to press against the tense muscles in his neck, then catching himself, he straightened his tie, as if that had been his intent all along. “I prefer more energetic and competitive forms of exercise.”

She shrugged, a dainty lift of one slender shoulder, and shifted her attention back to Ilsa. “Got a pencil and paper?” she asked, as if she wasn’t a waitress, on duty, and presumably expected to write down customer’s orders from time to time.

Ilsa drew a stylized, misty pink business card from her purse and turned it, blank side up, on the table. “Just write on that. And thanks so much for reminding me about the class. I’m looking forward to it.”

The little brunette jotted down a phone number and handed back the card. “I think you’ll really enjoy the class. Harry is a wonderful instructor and you won’t believe how old he is!” Her bluebell glance flicked from Ilsa to Adam and back again, challenging them to guess the instructor’s age. “Seventy-four!” she supplied before any guessing could take place. “He’s a perfect example of why Tai Chi is the very best form of exercise.”

Better than ballet and kickboxing? Adam wanted to ask, but kept his counsel and, instead, took her thinly veiled challenge in stride. He didn’t know why he felt anything other than annoyance when he looked at her—she was, after all, a silly little waitress, and not much of one at that—but, however unsettling, he recognized the sparks for the base attraction they were. Not that he could imagine any circumstances under which he would pursue such an attraction. And as he felt certain she’d do something to get herself fired long before he scheduled another lunch at The Torrid Tomato, it was highly unlikely he’d ever see her again.

There was a crescendo of noise, the clink and clatter of silverware on glass, and she straightened with the innate grace of an athlete. “The natives are getting restless,” she said, her lips curving with a rueful smile. “I’m off to assuage their hunger. See you Monday, if not sooner,” she said to Ilsa and moved past Adam with only a glance to indicate her goodbye. In a moment, the noise died back to a satisfied chorus of teasing calls and answering laughter…and Adam experienced a fleeting wish that he were sitting at a table in the midst of it all, where he could watch the sparkle in her eyes as she laughed.

“…and the caterer was fit to be tied,” Ilsa was saying, continuing a conversation that Adam had completely lost the gist of, so absorbed had he been in the imagined scene going on behind him. He brought his attention to heel and made sure he didn’t lose focus again.

Outside the restaurant, after they’d finished lunch, Adam and Ilsa shook hands and exchanged a thank-you for the meal and the conversation. “I hope to see you at Grandfather’s party,” he said. “I can’t promise it will be the best gathering the Braddocks have ever put together, but if I can get my hands on an events planner, I intend to make sure she orders plenty of that artichoke dip.”