Yes, Chef!

"So, your apartment tonight...or mine?"

I barely resist the urge to urge to flip over my plate of overpriced caviar and spit equally overpriced red wine into my date's face. We had just met, and he's already inviting me over?

Instead, like the polite young lady I am, I just stare at him calmly, hoping he'll confess that he was just messing around. Surely he couldn't be serious.

Except he's too busy ogling at my breasts like a five-year-old in a candy store. I secretly pray that my shirt wasn't see-through.

"Tiff, babe," he prods. "You don't have to worry. My roomate's not home tonight." He licks butter off his upper lip and I avert my eyes.

One thing's for certain: I am not having sex with John the Jerk. And don't call me Tiff. That's Tiffany for you.

"Um. No thank you," I respond, much to my chagrin.

Really?, I think to myself. You're a grownass, badass woman. Your response to this is "no thank you"? That's all you can muster?

John sighed. "Hey, look. I treated you to a nice dinner. Let's have some fun now."

"I have to get to work early tomorrow, and--"

"We can be quick, if you know what I mean," he adds with a sly half-smile.

I don't really know what he means. I feel sick to my stomach, and it's all because I consciously chose to go on a date with the first trust fund kid I swiped right on. Or that stupidly salty caviar. Or maybe both.

Regardless, what I do know is that I have to get out of this restaurant, pronto.

"Check, please?" I say with a twinge of desperation in my voice as the server comes over. She nods sympathetically and leaves to go fetch it for me.

John stands up and crosses over to my side of the table. He leans in to whisper something into my ear.

"I'll go get the car. Maybe you'll change your mind after a nice drive in my Porsche."

I roll my eyes as he twirls his keys in his fingers and leaves with a wink. The server returns with the check in a gold-gilded clipboard and places it on the table. I take a peek and almost pass out.

$329.14.

I promptly push the clipboard as far away from me on the table as I possibly can.

Thank goodness he's paying, I thought to myself. Right then and there I vowed that when I open my restaurant, I would not be serving caviar. I care about my customers and their wallets.

I check my phone for the time and scan the restaurant for John. Why is it taking him so long to get the car? I can't help but wonder.

And didn't he tell me earlier he got valet parking?

My eyes widen again. Shit. He was never going to "get" the car.

That was his excuse to make a run for it.

Panicked, I empty my tote bag onto the table. Lipstick, a Lubaba furry keychain I got for my birthday, more lipstick....Why do I have so many shades of lipstick? But alas, no wallet.

It's time to devise an escape plan, because I literally cannot pay for my food and my date ghosted me IRL.

Come on, me, think...I murmur to myself. Then it hits me. I look up and see a bright neon EXIT sign by the bathroom up ahead.

I jump from my seat and run to the server. And then I do something very, very bad.

"I'm so sorry, but I think my date's having some Number 2 issues. May I go to the bathroom to check on him? Since he's paying, you know..."

The server, evidently confused, nods.

Then I make my run for it.

Well, I speed-walk, since running would be a clear red flag. I pass the woman's bathroom, then the men's bathroom, until out of nowhere, my heel skids forward.

“Woah!” My arms flail as I slide backwards. I close my eyes and prepare for an embarrassing fall with a side of next-day back pain.

But then, suddenly, I feel strong arms around my waist.

My body feels hot as someone pulls me upright with one swift motion, supporting me against their body.

For a second, I don’t breathe. I can't breathe.

My cheek is pressed lightly against this person's chest. I feel it as it rises and falls, rises and falls.

I blink, dizzy, and tilt my head to look at my hero. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, with a few strands of wispy blond hair falling out of place above a pair of ridiculously sharp cheekbones. In other words: this man's devilishly handsome. From his tailored white shirt I pick up the faintest trace of cologne, musky and savage at the same time.

“I. Uh. Thank you,” I stammer.

He doesn’t smile. Rather, he studies me with this unreadable look, penetrating my soul with his mysterious dark eyes.

For a moment, I could've sworn they turned red. Or maybe it was just my lightheaded vision playing tricks on me.

I untangle myself from his embrace and melt right then and there.