Chapter 9
NINE
I hate being asked if I’m okay, particularly when I am not okay.
It’s a question Remi seems to be asking me more frequently lately, and it reminds me that although she is my boss, we’ve worked for years together, and she knows me well enough to know when something’s up.
I’ve never skipped out on an event before. I’ve given my all to my career and have never regretted the decision.
So, when I text Remi to let her know I’ll need someone to fill in for me tonight, she calls immediately, asking if I’m okay . Only after reassuring her I’m meeting with the caterer Paula insists on booking does her panic quell.
But my panic? That bitch is still alive and well as Quintin knocks on my front door for the second time in twenty-four hours.
I take a deep breath from my place in front of my bathroom mirror, admiring the way my concealer hides the shadows under my eyes from last night’s insomnia.
To be so utterly exhausted but have my slumber constantly interrupted due to vivid dreams of the man on the other side of my front door is a special kind of hell.
The first thing I notice when I open the door is the way his eyes devour me—the same eyes I dreamed were looking up from between my thighs as he truly devoured me.
Fuck, this is a bad idea.
“I’m going to pretend you know my favorite color is blue and that you wore this just for me.”
His words are as easygoing as his smile, and I bite my lip to keep from smiling.
He’s got a hoodie on, a denim jacket over it, and I realize he’s got a sprinkle of freckles on the apples of his cheeks.
They’re subtle, so tiny, a stranger might miss them, but this close to him, I can see them in all their adorable glory.
This is business, bitch , I remind myself, clearing my throat.
“But that would make this more of a date than a business meeting,” I point out before leaning back to grab my coat and purse from the rolling rack I keep near my front door. “And this isn’t a date.”
Even if I wore this top because I thought blue might be his favorite color.
I pull my coat on as I attempt to close my door.
Without speaking, he takes my purse from my hands and helps guide my arms into the wool sleeves.
When he runs his palms over my shoulders, smoothing my coat down, I try to release my breath slowly before inhaling through my nose, taking in the scent of him.
Clean and masculine, like pine and soap and fresh laundry just pulled from the dryer. He presses my purse back into my hands, and it takes me a moment to grip the leather strap.
My keys jingle as I remove them from my purse, locking the door with my face down to avoid looking at him as I thank him.
“No problem,” he offers, waiting patiently for me to finish locking up.
It’s hard to face him when I had a sex dream about him, hard to keep myself from feeling smug over my choice of attire.
The blue top is strapless, with boning that stops before the hem of my high-waisted pants.
The billowy sleeves make me feel like a sexy milkmaid, and there’s something about having my shoulders bared that makes me feel sensual.
It’s a shame to have to wear a coat, but as he leads us outside, I shiver.
Late Chicago fall is fickle as fuck. It’s either too hot, too cold, or too hot and then too cold.
“Where are we headed?” I ask as I peer over at him.
His hair looks as good today as it did yesterday, and I wonder if he’d gotten it done for our botched plans the day prior.
Guilt sits heavy in my belly, and I attempt to quell it, telling myself it’s better to disappoint him than give him the wrong impression.
“A friend of mine is an artist. She partnered with another chef to create dishes inspired by her art.” He says it with a large smile that speaks of pride, his eyes far away with thoughts of his friend, and I wonder what it’s like to be someone in his life.
I also wonder if he fucks his friends, but I don’t ask. That isn’t proper etiquette for a business meeting.
Which is totally what this is.
Nor is it what a sane person does.
Which is totally what I am.
“Will we be able to talk?” I ask, unsure if his friend will be there or if she’ll want to join us—unsure of how I’ll feel if she does. How many times will I have to remind myself this is just business? Apparently, with every breath I take.
I’m already regretting this decision, and the way he glances at me isn’t helping, all unflinching, crinkled with secret humor. Holy shit, he’s fucking gorgeous.
“Oh, yeah.” He nods, and I admire the way his breath escapes his body as he speaks. I admire the ease with which he strolls beside me, seemingly far more comfortable than I am. My heeled boots almost bring me face-to-face with him, and thankfully, they’re comfortable.
“Are we…walking?” I ask, realizing I don’t know if he has a car. Or drives. Or has a driver’s license.
Or hacks up unsuspecting women and secretly serves them in his restaurant.
“I mean, yes, we’re currently walking,” he starts, grinning at me before he pulls his hand from his jacket pocket, pointing toward the end of the street. I look in the direction his fingers are gesturing toward as he speaks. “We take a right at the end, and then it’s just across the street.”
“I’ve been here two years, and I’ve never eaten in this area,” I confess, knowing there’s a row of bars, restaurants, and shops here.
By next month, the trees lining the one-way street will be adorned with twinkling Christmas lights, and the area will be full of people doing cutesy shit I never partake in.
“You’ve been in Chicago for two years?” he asks as he puts his hand back in his pocket, lifting his shoulders with a shiver before dropping them.
“I’ve lived here almost all my life. I meant my current apartment.”
“And before Chicago?”
His questions are quick, and only he is privy to his intentions, but I like the way he seems interested in my story, so I answer him.
“Suburbs. My mom only came into the city for work, and I happened to fall in love with it.”
“Oh? What does she do?”
I used to be embarrassed by this question. I’ve lied, avoided it, or simply changed the subject in the past, but something about the ease of this conversation, of the way Quintin listens and asks questions, makes the words flow out of me like they cost me nothing.
They used to cost me my pride.
“She cleaned houses,” I tell him. “Her English wasn’t so great, so I’d come home from school and teach her. Or I’d come with her when she picked up extra shifts.”
He’s silent for a moment, as if he’s digesting my words before he offers his own. I wonder what he’s thinking, or if he’s trying to picture a pre-teen Dani with her second-hand clothes and her desire to do all the things her mother never let her do.
“So you taught her a lot.” A pause, and then, “What do you think is the most important thing she taught you?”
I cast him a sideways glance, but he isn’t looking at me as he takes me by my elbow, leading us across the street. We’re waiting at the corner for the pedestrian sign to light when he finally looks at me, waiting for my answer.
“Resilience. She took care of me on her own, and even when she met my papi , I was always hers.”
Mami raised me, and I belonged to her. Papi always joked that I was the love of her life, that he comes second. She never denied it, always granting him a knowing smile, like she and I were meant to do life together.
“It sounds like she loves you a lot,” he muses as we cross the street, his hand still gripping my elbow.
I want to ask him about his parents, but we’re already headed inside the restaurant. The bustle of people walking out as we’re entering makes it hard to continue our private conversation.
Almost immediately, someone walks up to him in a flurry of excitement, and I give them space to embrace each other.
I’m eyeing the back of her head, her blonde hair pulled back in a bun. They pull away from one another, and I remind myself to smile, even if it’s barely there. Business or not, this feels awkward.
I shouldn’t have agreed to this. Just as I open my mouth to feign a headache and make a quick escape back to a life as comfortable as it is monotonous, Quintin reaches out, clasping my hand in his.
I stare down at the connection, not able to remember the last time someone held my hand.
Is it my strong desire for affection? The fact that I’m starved for an interaction other than the ones I’ve allowed myself to enter?
And maybe it’s been my fault all along. Maybe I’ve sabotaged myself to the point of bitterness.
But my hand in his feels far too warm to let myself indulge in.
Abort mission, bitch. Shit is getting far too real.
When I look back up at Quintin, his eyes twinkle, and he lets my hand go as if he can read my mind. Then he places his palm against my back and leans in.
“Relax,” he whispers, his breath against my neck giving me goosebumps before he turns back to his friend. “Willa, this is Daniela.”
He doesn’t call me his friend, doesn’t say this is a date, doesn’t offer her anything other than my name. It leaves space for open interpretation, and I try not to focus too much on it as I look at his beautiful friend.
“Welcome,” she gushes, taking my hands. I wonder what the fuck it is with these people and handholding. Still, she seems excited, so I smile wider and thank her. “And thanks again for helping with the cat.”
I glance between them for a moment, and then I understand. Willa is the friend whose girlfriend’s cat is the one I saved from under my car, the reason I’m even here.
She wastes no more time leading us to a small empty table amid the chaos, explaining how the event works. I try not to tune them out, but as I nod and smile, I feel myself disassociating again. He thought this was the best place to talk business? I can hardly think my own thoughts.
Hell, if this were a date, I’d be out of here.