tête-à-tête
(sequel to the sign)
Days had passed. A few in which you enjoyed your job as a waitress a lot more than before.
The sign you had given Jean-Philippe gave him a clear hint. Though there was still a lack of your desired outcome.
During the few days, Jean-Philippe and you danced around each other, catching each other's eyes and the following smiles, slight brushes against each other's bodies while passing by, but nothing more and nothing less, which, you had to say, bothered you. There was no approval nor a refusal.
Unbeknownst to you, Jean-Philippe had felt the same way. He was still unsure if it was an innocent gesture of yours. In the following days, he had felt like walking on thin ice. Trying to return the gesture you had given him.
In general, he wasn't sure of himself, but he felt like he needed to take action and finally say something to you. It felt like not doing so would result in him suffocating on his own words.
So, he wanted to, he wanted to talk to you badly and he couldn't wait any longer. But the current situation in the dining room proved he would have a difficult time getting to talk to you.
Tonight two of the chefs, one from the red and the other from the blue team, were challenged by being part of the wait staff. Jean-Philippe wanted to believe that they were trying their best at serving the guests, but the longer he observed them in the dining room, the more convinced he was that it was hopeless.
The evening had a pretty rocky start.
Starting to walk up to Jean-Philippe, you wanted to hand him your tickets from your section of the dining room. Sorting through the tickets, he looked up and gave you a shy, almost nervous smile, thanking you for the tickets.
"You know I actually wanted to talk to you about-", starting his sentence with a slight laugh but then stopped mid-sentence as he received another set of tickets from one of the server-turned-chefs.
"What is that? That is a table with six guests, why are there only four dishes written down?", having almost fully turned to the chef, he looked shortly at you and then apologized quickly before pacing away.
You were rather curious as to what he wanted to talk about - maybe the kiss? Maybe he would tell you how he felt about it? How he felt about you? Something about what he wanted to tell you, sent a slight shiver down your spine. But something told you that it could take a while, until he and you had the chance to talk.
The evening went on, you refilled the guests' glasses and went to fill the bread baskets a second, sometimes even a third time while the customers waited for their food. You tried to help the server-turned-chefs with their tickets and serving ordered dishes to their tables. Helping them so they wouldn’t confuse the table numbers and their dishes, or showing them how to place dishes and who should be served first.
Jean-Philippe, who saw you doing what would in fact be his task, smiled thoughtfully to himself, humming a low tone in the process. That’s what he liked about you. How you helped others without a second thought. How kind your smile was in the process of doing so. How high you held your head even after a tiring day at work, sometimes when Chef Ramsay would give you a cocky remark and you stood there, swallowing his words and continuing your shift like nothing had happened. He found you remarkable. Gracious even, just from seeing you in that simple white button-up and your black dress pants. The elegant way you communicated with the guests, trying to keep them at bay when they grew irritated from waiting so long until their food arrived. He found you lovely.
Jean-Philippe stood there another second admiring you, not hearing the shout of his name from his dear friend and colleague Gordon. Finally being freed from his trance, he made his way to the hot plate, getting his orders from the British chef.
In return you now watched him for a spare second, watching how he basically floated up the step to the pass. It was always a pleasure to watch him work, tending to the guests' every need and want. How carefully he chose his words with the people around him, coating them with that belgian accent of his, applying a charming smile to his face, which in return almost always applies a smile to the customer's mouth. He was just not unlikeable, at least in your eyes. Your eyes then retracted from his figure, turning back to work.
Coming up to the hot plate yourself now, waiting for any sign of another of your tables' orders being passed to you. You almost flinched when you heard Jean-Philippe's voice behind you.
"Hey..."
"Hey, are you alright?"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine...", he started, looking sheepishly away, then turning his gaze to your eyes once again. "So what I wanted to talk to you about was about the other day and-", he was once again disrupted, this time by none other than the head chef himself, Gordon Ramsay, shouting at him to get back to work again, calling him a 'twat' in the process.
Now you grew agitated. You finally wanted to hear what he wanted to tell you! By now you were sure you had to wait until the next day so you could talk. But thinking could wait. Just now Chef Ramsay shouted for service.
"This goes to table ten, right, piss off yeah.", you could finally get dishes out, getting the tray and waiting for one of your fellow colleagues to follow you with another tray in hand.
When you reached the table, the guests almost broke out in a cheer, being overjoyed with finally getting their long-awaited food. Though another look to the hot plate told you, that the other tables wouldn't have such a happy reaction over the course of the evening...
Though you couldn't hear what was being said, you could've guessed, just from seeing Jean-Philippe's low-hung head and how he carried himself, from just a small order from the chef. Whatever the order was, it was sure to disappoint. And if it put Jean-Philippe in a sour mood, it would endorse a worse mood for the guests. Shortly after that, the maître d' gestured for the waiting staff to gather around him.
"The kitchen has been closed, so, please, tell the remaining tables that there will be no food served any longer", a hand on your shoulder kept you from walking away. Looking at the owner of said hand, you, once again this night, came face-to-face with Jean-Philippe. "Can we talk for a minute?", you of course, nodded in agreement.
Walking into a room out of sight of any other people, Jean-Philippe closed the door and softly leaned against it, facing you. Now the nervousness caught up to you, standing there just with him. Putting his hands in his pockets, he took a step toward you and began.
"So what I wanted to talk to you about, uhm, is-"
"Jean-Philippe, I'm sorry if I overstepped the line. I don't know what I was thinking back then, you know.", you didn't know what to do. You were starting to doubt that there was anything positive about this talk. It didn't cross your mind that he could also reject you, that you mistook all those brushes and looks, that you were too forward a few nights ago.
"Again, I'm sorry, I just-"
"Chérie, please, don't be...", it was his turn to interrupt.
"(y/n), I was quite surprised by you, you know? Quite happy actually." his features starting to relax in a light smile now. Relief washed over you. He was happy with the little peck. He took a step further toward you, a little blush rushing to his cheeks.
"So in return I wanted to ask if I could ask you out, you know, on a date?", to say you were simply happy would be an understatement. You were overwhelmed with joy.
"Really? Oh, I'm so glad! Of course!", you couldn't help the smile that spread across your cheeks. "Just tell me when and where."
"How about Sunday?"
"Sounds perfect..."
"Then I'll pick you up at six.", just like yours, his smile didn't vanish off his face. How could you make this smile last forever?
Due to his stance, his head was a bit tilted downward. You stepped nearer, one step after the other, until you stood right in front of the man. Once again, like a few nights before, you repeated the same action. Pressing your lips just above the corner of his mouth. At least you meant to reach that spot.
Jean-Philippe turned his head. You were now so close to him you could smell his cologne. You hesitated for a moment, looking at his lips. Steading your hands on his collarbone, you found the courage to press your lips against his. Taking his hands out of his pockets, they were carefully placed on your upper back. Pulling away, you looked into his chestnut brown eyes.
"Sunday at six?", you wanted to be sure you hadn't dreamt all of this.
"Sunday at six."