CASUAL AFFAIR; brendon urie

Chapter Forty-Six

My stomach had been full of butterflies the moment I got the text from Brendon, asking to meet me at Olive Garden for lunch.

He'd been back from Russia for over a week now, but today had been the only day when one of us was free - and if absence from the other side of the country or continent had made the heart grow fonder, it had nothing on knowing that he was only ever ten minutes or so from me and I couldn't see him.

So yeah, today felt like a pretty big deal.

The nerves I was hopped up on felt like the kind you get when you're about to have your first proper date with a guy that you're super eager to impress - your hair has to be just so, your outfit has to make you look attractive enough to him but not too desperate or slutty, your make-up has to be perfect, and do not get me started on finding shoes to go with the whole thing. Which was ridiculous, because Brendon had seen me in my sweats and a slouchy t-shirt. But that thought didn't do anything to lessen the jitters I was getting as I combed my hair first into a ponytail, then a bun, and then finally an artfully messy side plait, and went through outfit after outfit before settling on a skater dress with a fitted black torso, and a tribal patterned skirt that fell just above my knees and black suede heels. Were the heels too much? After all it was just lunch. But wearing pumps had an unfortunate effect of making me even shorter, and besides, I didn't own any that went with the dress.

Lord knows how many more outfits I would have tried, tested and rejected had I not glanced at the clock and seen that I had ten minutes left.

Olive Garden was busy when I'd arrived, and as I'd scanned over the tables, I'd seen not one of them free nor with Brendon seated at them. I was biting my lip whilst I gave a second glance, when a maître d' appeared. He was the typical stereotype of an Italian lothario, with olive skin, slicked back dark hair, and an angular bone structure that could cut glass. And he was giving me what I assumed was the most charming smile he had in his arsenal. "May I help you madam?"

"Yes." I said, and resisted the urge snap my fingers at his eyes, which were firmly trained on my chest, point to my face and say 'My eyes are up here, buddy,'. "I'm looking for someone."

"Is there a reservation?"

I tried not to cringe at the heavily, over-exaggeratedly way he pronounced reserrrr-vay-sh-ion, and bit my lip again. "I'm not sure. Maybe."

"I can check." He purred silkily. "One moment-o,". He consulted the reservations book. "Name?"

"Urie. Brendon Urie."

His face twitched with an expression of defeat. "Ah, yes. Mr Urie has a table for two right outside." He waved a hand ahead, though his gestures were much less seductive now, with a lot less effort and grandeur put into them. "Please, follow me."

He led me through the restaurant, to a door that led out onto a terrace. The sun was still relentlessly beating down, but it was cooler here, on the North side of the building, and there was even a very subtle, pleasant breeze. And it was pretty. Really pretty. Black wrought iron tables built for the company of two, with white tablecloths covering them, cutlery and a vase with a single pink peony. The chairs matched the tables, of course, and only half of the few here with occupied. Here was Brendon, making sure we were in the most intimate place - like a date - and I didn't even know Olive Garden had a terrace.

"Right here, Miss." He led me to an empty table, and pulled my chair out for me. "I am sure Mr Urie will be with you shortly." He seemed a little encouraged by the fact that Brendon wasn't here yet, like I might be the most impatient woman ever, and fall into his strong, oiled Italian arms seeking comfort. "Can I offer you anything? Some water, some bread?" My phone number?