7. Jonathan

F or the past couple of days, I'd started looking forward to dinner time, only to be wildly disappointed by the absence of the correct waiter. Not that I wanted to call Donovan a waiter, but they were the only reason I still put on my trousers, made my way downstairs and endured the humiliation of being seated alone in a busy restaurant. Today, some youngster with eyelashes so oversized they must surely have obscured her vision was manhandling me. She smiled sweetly and offered me a menu, only to rush back, babbling apologies because apparently, I wasn't supposed to be given a menu.

At least, I think that's what she was saying. People with too much filler in their lips don't form their words properly, and this girl was impossible to understand. She asked me something, and I replied with, "Water," which received a grimace that told me I'd misheard her question, but instead of asking again, she rolled her eyes.

Typical. Nobody had any patience for the guy in the corner, in a tracksuit, bringing the vibe of the place down with his bizarre answers to their simple questions.

I wasn't deaf. I was just hard of hearing and embarrassed as hell about it.

So, I sat there like a fool until that man—Mark, I recalled—came and dumped my usual glass of Shiraz down with a flurry of ramblings that I struggled to make any sense of. I'd asked for Donovan yesterday and the day before, and I didn't dare ask again. Yet this Mark lingered, staring at me expectantly as if waiting for me to ask and then answered anyway.

"Mabel is on their break, so unfortunately, you're stuck with me and Milliee for now. Would you like me to put your order in? Can I tempt you with our baked scallop starter? Succulent scallops on a delicate foam reduction with caramelised shallots and tender smoked-bacon-infused croutons."

"With the Shiraz?" I remarked loftily, at which Mark blushed. Ah yes, I'd caught him off guard. I knew his type. He thought I was an easy customer, someone he could manipulate and charm into submission. For the record, I could be just that—submissive and bland, especially when pushed into a corner and slightly out of my comfort zone.

I sighed.

"The scallops sound lovely," I replied, hoping I'd got that right, then retreated awkwardly, pushing my back into the seat. I just wanted to eat, get back to my penthouse and twiddle my thumbs. Pretend I was resting until the sun rose over the horizon and another day began.

"I apologise, and I agree," Mark oozed. "You need our award-winning Chilean Sauvignon Blanc to go with the scallops. I would be delighted to bring you a glass."

"Would you now." He was getting on my nerves, and…I was doing it again—being impossible and more than a little rude.

"I will send Mabel over to speak to you as soon as they're back on duty."

But he was learning fast.

"Jolly good," I replied, then pretended to be engrossed in my phone until he got the message and went away.

It felt like weeks since I'd moved into the penthouse next door, but I still hadn't achieved anything noteworthy. I'd nailed several deals and started an ambitious new project. Jenny was keeping me in the loop with frequent updates interspersed with demands that I switch off and take a break. She'd started sending me lunches. I hadn't asked; she'd merely figured out that I was exactly as hopeless as she expected me to be.

I'd thrown most of those lunches away—not out of spite, but because I'd forgotten to open the bags and found them late at night, still sitting on my kitchen counter.

I was awful. Useless. I could barely look after myself. The truth was, I didn't care. I was lazy and disinterested in my own well-being. Was I depressed? I hated that word. My mother whispered it behind my back in hushed tones. A truth I didn't want to deal with.

Despite my laziness, I'd had another session with my new personal trainer, running on the treadmill in the private gym I'd had installed in the apartment. Running was good for me. Not only did it keep my heart beating, but it kept my doctor off my back. This personal trainer had said the same—Inez, her name was. She'd told me I needed to feed my muscles and offered to overhaul my diet. I'd laughed—an evil cackling laugh. She'd kept her mouth shut after that. My diet was fine. Numerous decaf espressos filled my day, followed by a three-course meal, eaten while stewing in my loneliness in the vacuum of a busy restaurant.

Last week, I'd mistimed my visits with Donovan's working hours, as they had been doing the breakfast shift and gone home long before I arrived for my much-needed evening soirée. The week before that, I'd managed to get served by them twice, which had been a welcome delight. Then the next day, again, no Donovan. I'd sulked despite that young Milliee girl filling me in on all the details and even nodded appreciatively as she'd yapped on. Donovan still hadn't found a place to live, was, according to Milliee, constantly fighting with Mark and had tried to sack Aimee for having a cigarette in the staff toilets mid-shift. Milliee had been ‘well pissed off' with that little stunt. Also, she hated wine, couldn't remember anything Mark was trying to teach her and had no idea what to substitute for my Shiraz. But, she'd added, Donovan had told her she had to look straight at me when speaking so I could read her lips.

I'd coughed to hold back laughter, then swallowed it down as Milliee went into detail about her lip fillers and cosmetology course, and her plans to conquer the world of stage make-up with her newfound skills.

I had no doubt she would and told her as much. At least I could understand her when spoke to me like I was a truant three-year-old being scolded for my stroppiness.

Despite my snarky inner monologue, I was grateful for her efforts. I hadn't even had the strength to kick up a fuss over the fact that I'd drunk them dry of that crate of Shiraz. I liked it. I wanted it. They had none. Milliee brought me another glass of water as I fumed inside and smiled on the outside.

Yesterday, I'd spotted Donovan in the back before even being shown to my seat by the delightful Tabitha. I liked her. Professional, kind, she kept me safe from other people and seemed to know exactly how I liked my little visits here to play out. The right seat, the right table, a glass of water, no menu, no silly chit-chat. She waited to catch my eye before speaking and always remembered to inform me if Donovan was working or not. Then the food would appear like magic, followed by a brief visit from the head chef, whose name I could never remember, who I dismissed with a quick flick of my wrist, pretending I was very busy on my phone to disguise my poor manners.

I got fed. No sign of Donovan after that.

So, I went home.

Didn't sleep. I never did.

Here I was again, after another productive day, in another tracksuit, sitting at my preferred restaurant table, bleary-eyed and feeling at odds, wondering if I should just get up and go home, forget about eating. I wasn't even hungry.

"You look tired."

The smile that plastered itself to my face was almost embarrassing, but here they were, and I must have shown slight shock as they blushed.

No make-up. A bare face under gelled-back hair and a tailored suit that clung to their every curve.

Mabel Donovan was stunning .

"Wow," I said. I didn't mean to let that slip, but I couldn't help it. They were just so…surprising. Every time I'd had any interaction with them, they surprised me, and I had no idea why I liked it so much. Why I was sitting here smiling as they slid onto the seat next to me, folded their arms over the table and smiled.

That smile.

The air was warm, heat radiating from my cheeks.

"Mr Templar, you are aware that underneath all this fabric, although the body parts are male, it's not always who I am. My heart is very fluid."

What a phrase to just throw out there.

"I do know that, Donovan," I assured them. I wanted to add something more, but I was terrified of…I don't know. Offending them? Still I couldn't stop smiling. "You have a sizable package. It's rather fetching, especially in those orange trousers you sometimes wear."

God. Now I'd done it.

They jerked in feigned shock and rolled their eyes at me. "Mark's right, then."

"About?" I enquired.

"You're not very discreet in the way you eye-fuck me when I cross the room."

The silence was thick for a moment, and then I laughed because what the hell was going on here? They were smiling too. A nice smile, one of those smiles that made me relax right back into my chair.

I liked when people hit back at me, when they challenged me and weren't frightened of the ghost they expected me to be. I liked when people were just who they were. And I liked when I could feel like me. The real me.

Oh, who was I kidding? I never let the real me out to play. I was restrained, firm, neatly packaged into what people expected, even here, once again, in my grey tracksuit with my hair standing on end, looking like a hobo off the streets.

I didn't like when people flirted with me because I'd never really understood it—not even now, even though I was under no illusion that Mabel Donovan was doing anything of the sort. I was painfully aware of my indiscreet addiction to their attention, and that they had, with a swift stream of words, told me to rein it in. I hadn't been flirting. I had no inclinations of any sort towards them. I just wanted…I had no idea what I wanted, apart from them talking to me and a nice meal and all this sunshine on my face.

"Mr Templar." They were trying not to smile as they visibly recomposed themselves into the professional they were supposed to be. Work mode on. "I don't fraternise with our clients. There is a firm boundary line here."

"Fully understood." I nodded. I wasn't after any of that and agreed with their stance, but I felt we'd established a small bond of trust—something that made me relax, a rarity for me in public. I was always uptight, alert to my surroundings, trying to read people as I spoke with care and always with the intent of getting my way.

Except I wasn't in work mode, and I didn't know what to say. As it turned out, my mouth seemed to know what to do before my brain had the chance to engage.

"I appreciate the assumption, but I can assure you, the only thing I crave is the delight of your company and the chance to step away from having to decide what I want on my plate."

"Perfect," their very pretty mouth responded, still smiling at me.

I almost had to look away because it was too much, their warmth. My chest must have been glowing underneath my clothes. Mabel Donovan was tall, their thick hair just a shade beyond what people called platinum blonde, perfect brows, their every feature chiselled perfection, and their lips could have been taken straight out of a comic book, a thick, bottom lip cradling a thinner top. I was fully aware I was staring at them and how uncomfortable they were under my gaze.

"I am also very grateful for your staff's efforts…" I wasn't used to admitting it out loud. I was still utterly embarrassed by my disability—my body failing me, my own inability to help myself.

"Don't mention it. It's the least we can do. To be honest, I enjoy our little encounters. You're an intriguing man. I've taken you under my wing, so you're now my responsibility, and we need to keep you smiling like that, maybe do something about those dark circles under your eyes. I am, despite my inability to keep any secrets about myself, a good listener, so if there's anything keeping you up at night, you can offload all that right here. Promise. Anything you tell me will stay close to my chest, and perhaps you can sleep better."

They still sat there, leaning towards me. Mabel Donovan had that kind of face, like they didn't need to even try. All they had to do was breathe in my direction, and I felt comfortable. Calm.

"I don't sleep," I blurted. "Never have. It's part of why my doctor insists on all these things—trying to get me into a good routine to aid my rampant insomnia."

"No alcohol, no caffeine, no sugar, no blue light before bedtime." They smirked. "I've read all the handbooks. I once had a bad time sleeping after a particularly soul-destroying break-up. Didn't help me either. I went out partying, got drunk, and slept it all off afterwards. Gave myself a stern talking to and swore off men."

"Men," I said.

"Men," they said with conviction. "We all have our likes and dislikes. I have mine."

"So do I," I said, and just like that, my shoulders pulled back—slowly—and I morphed into the safety of being Mr Jonathan Templar. I had no idea what I was doing here, spilling my troubles like I knew what I was talking about. I was single for a reason. For ease. The ease of pleasing everyone around me. The ease of simply choosing not to lie.

"Let me bring you your starter," they said softly, getting up from the table.

I nodded weakly, looking down at my hands.

I didn't know why I'd even opened my mouth.