It is not very often that you see an unpretentious looking young man step out of a Rolls-Royce.
My name is Paige d'Lephaunt. I am a journalist working for a major Chicago newspaper, and on this particular night, I was waiting for my subject at the Riva Café on East Grand Avenue. For those who have never been there, the restaurant is a fairly large building on Navy Pier, overlooking Lake Michigan. The large dining room is open and is strewn with tables in what is best described as organized chaos. I had never eaten there, and with the prices as high as they were, I am glad that my bosses were paying for my meal.
I was sitting in the foyer, purse in hand, waiting for my date for the evening. I had not been told his name, only that he was a wealthy academic from Europe. Dave, my editor, suggested that I dress nicely – apparently the Riva is a ritzy place. Oh, and trust me, it is! I may be a journalist, but I was treated as royalty – it helps that I have a by-line and I used to be food reviewer. As I walked in the door (ten minutes early), the maitre 'd appeared at my shoulder and asked if I had a reservation, calling me by name.
"Yes, I do. I'm here with, uhm..."
"I understand. We were informed that you would be here – your guest requested that he remain anonymous. Please wait here until he arrives." With that, the dark haired young man disappeared, returning a moment later with a high backed oak chair. "He called ahead to inform you that he might be a moment late. 'Business calls', he said."
"Oh," I said, disappointed. I hate waiting. "Alright then." I felt like I was on display, sitting there in the foyer of one of Chicago's foremost restaurants, without a partner. Not that I was complaining too much. I'm twenty six years old and I keep myself in shape. I stand just over five and a half feet tall, and I have dark chestnut hair that hangs to my waist. As any woman with curls can tell you, it's a pain in the proverbial ass trying to keep curly hair of that length neat. I'd struggled for three hours this evening trying to get it tamed. I love my hair – because of an accident at my birth, I have golden blonde streaks shooting through my chestnut curls, and I never have to worry about tangles.
I'd sat near the window for nearly twenty minutes before a decently sized car rolled up. It was a silver thing, long in the bonnet, conservative headlights and coach doors. It was a Phantom.
Oh, my god!
I thought. What shocked me more was that a young man stepped out of it, handed the keys to the valet and walked toward the doors. He was dressed in a dark blazer, jeans, and a white turtleneck. I suddenly felt overdressed! He had long hair pulled back into a ponytail, glasses and a trimmed beard. A sudden bustle behind me had me standing up and checking my hair and makeup. The maitre 'd had informed the owner of the new arrival, and Phil Stefani came bustling out of the back room. Four servers appeared out of no where, and I was left standing in the middle of the foyer. Which, I assure you, was a distinctly uncomfortable feeling.
I tried to step out of the limelight and behind the welcoming party, but the maitre 'd smiled and pushed me back into the middle, whisking my chair out from behind me.
I gulped.
"Is that who I think it is?" I asked the room in general. The welcoming party tittered an affirmative.
"Oh crap." The laughter rose.
Now, bear in mind that I'm an experienced journalist. I've interviewed the president, celebrities (Bruce Willis was thoroughly entertaining, and I nearly got into a cat fight with Jada Pinkett-Smith), oil moguls and five star generals. I have never in my life been this intimidated. All this happened in a span of thirty seconds, and I was already a nervous wreak.
The glass doors opened and I heard a peal of deep laughter and a healthy chuckle from the doorman. My guest walked in the door (wearing steel toed boots, nonetheless!) and raised his head to look at, well, me. I nearly fainted.
All of my fetishes, everything that I considered attractive in men was personified on this one individual. I barely heard this man cheerfully chastise Mr. Stefani for such an elaborate welcome – I was focussed on his steel grey eyes, his blonde hair, trimmed beard and shoulders that threatened to break out of his jacket. This man was enormous! He stood over six feet tall and looked like a cross between Triple-H and the Beast!
Oh God!
I thought again, this time in desperation.
I stood in the foyer, unnoticed by this man while he joked with the owners, complimented the maitre 'd, flirted with the female servers and intimidated the waiters. I felt small, all of a sudden, and wanted to crawl back into whatever hole I'd sprung from. I shifted cautiously on my high heels and waited for whatever was to come to happen. It did.
"And I imagine that this enchanting creature is Miss D'Lephant."
Oh God! He's standing right in front of me!
"Yes sir," said Mr. Stefani. "She is the reporter from the newspaper."
How did he know...oh.
It took me a moment to remember who I was.
