The Man At Table Seven

The club was called Vesper, an exclusive establishment where money was practically part of the dress code. Dark velvet booths lined the walls beneath warm, low lighting, while polished black floors reflected the glow of expensive chandeliers. Politicians, executives, celebrities, and people whose names rarely appeared in public filled the room every night. Emerson occupied one of the largest booths with his four closest friends—Garret, Drake, Ryder, and Disel. For once, there was no business to discuss. Garret was halfway through some ridiculous story, Ryder was laughing at him, Drake watched with an amused expression, and Disel quietly nursed his drink while Emerson sat comfortably among them, his suit jacket hanging over the back of his chair. Then their waitress approached. She’s wearing a tight, white tank top, tiny black shorts, a small black apron folded and tied around her waist, and black stiletto heels. She moved between the tables with the practiced efficiency of someone who had done this hundreds of times, polite and professional without seeming nervous or overly impressed by the wealthy men sitting in front of her. She took their orders, exchanged a quick remark with Garret that earned a laugh from the table, and disappeared back into the crowd. Emerson found himself watching her longer than he intended. There was something about her that caught his attention—not because she was trying to get it, but because she wasn’t. A few minutes later, she returned with their drinks and placed Emerson’s glass in front of him. He looked up at her, a faint smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Actually,” he said casually, leaning back in his seat, “before you go, can I get your number?”