Table for Two

The place was nicer than she expected.

Snow was falling in fat, lazy flakes outside the revolving doors, and the entrance was wrapped in twinkling garlands and a massive lit Christmas tree.

Maybe this is too much for a blind date, she wondered while sprinting towards the revolving doors of Lumière at 6:58 p.m.

Just in time, she thought while praying her date hadn’t arrived already.

Inside, a huge fireplace crackled, pine-and-cinnamon scented the air, and a soft jazz version of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” floated overhead.

The kind of place where you could imagine a Director of a major tech company wanting to talk casually.

Tomorrow
Not today.
TOMORROW!

Tia arrived breathless at the reception and forced her voice into calmness.

The hostess looked up at her and smiled like she’d been expecting the chaos. “Table for Tia?”

“Yes… sorry… I’m…”

“This way.”

The hostess gave her a knowing smile and led her through to the restaurant, past tables full of holiday parties in ugly Christmas sweaters. She made her way past the main dining room to a corner booth that felt almost secret: low amber lighting, fresh peonies in a silver vase and a discreet string of warm fairy lights draped along the velvet banquette, neighboring tables far enough away that conversations stayed private.

Tia slid into the velvet banquette, heart hammering. No sign of her date. Good, she still had time to scout.

She flagged a passing server. “Hi! Quick question. This place does a lot of MediaTech interviews, right? Any chance you know who the Director of Product is? Favorite wine? Lucky table?” She attempted her most winning smile.

The server’s eyes twinkled, but just as he was about to reply, the air in the room shifted, like everyone inhaled all at once. The server’s, and everyone else’s heads turned subtly towards the entrance.

A woman strode through the restaurant with the unhurried confidence of someone who never had to wait for anything. Tall, mocha-skinned, charcoal blazer tailored to perfection over a silk camisole the colour of deep holiday red. Her curls were pulled into a low, glossy knot that somehow looked both professional and artistic. She scanned the room once, smiled, and made a beeline for Tia’s table.

“Tia, right?” Her voice was warm honey over gravel. “I’m Shay.”

As she slid into the opposite seat from Tia, the server smiled and said, “I’ll bring over the wine list and tonight’s Christmas-reserve selections,” before departing without another word to Tia.