8. The Dinner Deal
8
THE DINNER DEAL
ALEX
There's a certain energy to Seattle in the evening, particularly when the autumn rain gives way to clear, crisp skies. Tonight, the city lights shimmer beneath us through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Canlis, where I've carefully selected a table that offers both privacy and a view that could justify the eye-watering prices on the menu.
I check my watch—a Swiss movement I rarely notice the value of anymore—as I take another sip of the Macallan 25.
It's nearly 7:15, and Mackenzie Gallo is precisely fifteen minutes late to our business dinner. Fifteen minutes that I've spent wondering if she'd actually show, or if this was some elaborate ploy to leave me sitting alone at a table for two.
Considering our stormy history, I wouldn't entirely blame her.
My phone buzzes with a text from Grayson.
GRAYSON: So, did corporate culture consultant stand you up, or are you already breaking the bachelor pact under the table?
I ignore it, setting my phone face down as the ma?tre d' approaches.
"Mr. Drake," he says, "Ms. Gallo has arrived."
And then she's there, striding toward the table with the same confidence that had her throwing champagne in my face at that gala.
Her dark curls are loose tonight, framing her face in a way that softens her usual corporate armor. She's wearing a deep burgundy dress that makes her skin glow in the restaurant's dim lighting. For a moment, I’m caught off-guard by how different she looks outside the office.
I stand as she approaches, another reflex from the old money manners my mother drilled into me before she left.
"Ms. Gallo.” I deftly pull out her chair. "I was beginning to think I'd be drinking alone tonight."
"Traffic," she says, settling into her seat. "And I considered it. Standing you up, I mean."
A waiter materializes, offering the wine list. Before I can take it, Mac raises an eyebrow.
"I assume you've already selected something obscenely expensive to establish dominance?"
I fight back a smile. "The '82 Sassicaia," I confirm to the waiter, who nods.
"Of course, sir. Excellent choice."
When he leaves, Mac leans forward. "You do realize I can identify a power play from across the city, right?"
"It's not a power play to appreciate fine wine."
"It is when you select it before your dining companion arrives." She unfolds her napkin with a snap. "Let me guess—you also pre-ordered appetizers you think I'll like after having Emma research my preferences?"
The corner of my mouth jerks. "I considered it."
"But?"
"But I decided that would be too obvious. "
She actually laughs at that. "Well, at least you're self-aware about your control issues."
"I prefer to think of it as thorough preparation."
"Spoken like a true micromanager."
The sommelier arrives with the wine, initiating the ritual that I've performed hundreds of times at business dinners. Mac watches with barely concealed amusement as I inspect the label, approve the uncorking, swirl, sniff, and taste the ruby liquid.
"Acceptable?" she asks when I nod to the sommelier.
"Exceptional.” I watch as he pours a glass for her. "Though I suspect you'll form your own opinion."
She takes a sip, and I catch a glimmer of interest in her expression before she schools it.
"It's good," she admits. "Though at these prices, it should basically make all my life decisions for me."
The sommelier retreats, and suddenly we're alone with only the wine and the city lights between us.
I'm struck by the realization that this is the first time we've been together outside the office without the pretext of corporate politics.
"So…” She studies me over the rim of her glass. “Is this the part where you try to charm me into revealing all my corporate culture secrets? Or are we skipping right to the threats about me ‘staying in line’?”
"Neither." I lean back, allowing the server to place menus before us. "This is the part where we have dinner and discuss how to fix the gender pay gap at Drake Enterprises."
Her eyes widen slightly. “You want to talk about the pay gap? Really?"
"You seemed concerned about it.”
"Concerned is a mild way of putting it."
"Nevertheless, you were right. The numbers are problematic. "
"And yet you've done nothing about it."
"Not nothing," I correct, then hesitate. Admitting corporate failings doesn't come naturally. "Not enough, I’m sure.”
Something similar to shock crosses her face. "Well," she says, closing her menu, "that's... surprisingly honest."
"I'm capable of honesty, Ms. Gallo."
"Mac," she says suddenly.
"Excuse me?"
"If we're going to discuss dismantling systematic gender discrimination over dinner, you might as well call me Mac. 'Ms. Gallo' feels a bit formal."
"Mac," I repeat.
It’s a name I’ve called her in my head many times already. And it suits her.
Short. Straightforward, with hidden complexity.
I clear my throat. “Then I suppose you should call me Alex."
"Oh, I don't know," she teases, "I've grown rather fond of 'Mr. Drake' or 'Tech Overlord' as Keith from DevOps calls you."
"Please don't encourage him. He's already trying to form a protest book club in the break room."
She laughs again, and the warmth of the sound washes over me.
The waiter returns for our orders, and I watch as Mac navigates the menu with the same efficiency she applies to corporate reform initiatives.
After the waiter leaves, she takes another sip of wine, her eyes never leaving mine. "So, about this pay gap…”
"I've been working with HR to analyze the discrepancies," I begin. "The problem is more systemic than I initially realized."
"That's corporate-speak for 'it's a bigger mess than I thought.'"
"Essentially. The salary structures were established before my time, and?— "
"Oh, don't give me the 'I inherited the problem' excuse." She folds her fingers together. "You've been CEO for how long?"
"Eight years."
"And in eight years, you never thought to examine whether women were being paid fairly compared to their male counterparts?"
There it is.
The direct challenge I've come to expect from her.
Yet somehow, outside the office, without the audience of board members and executives, it feels less like an attack and more like... clarity.
"I delegated compensation reviews to HR and the board," I admit. "A mistake, in retrospect."
"A convenient one."
"Perhaps." I meet her gaze head-on. "But I'm acknowledging it now."
The appetizers arrive, providing a momentary reprieve from our conversation. I watch as Mac studies the presentation of the oysters, a small smile gracing her full mouth.
“So you did get my preferences from Emma after all, huh?”
I shrug. "Thorough preparation."
Her laugh is light, genuine, and for the first time, I feel seen—not as the ruthless CEO or the man she threw alcohol on at that gala—but as someone who's trying to do better. Trying to do right by the people who deserve it.
"You're full of surprises tonight, Alex." Her gaze softens. "I wasn’t expecting... this."
"What were you expecting?"
"A power move. An ego trip. Maybe a lecture on how I’m too outspoken."
"I’ve been listening to you for months, Mac. You’re one of the smartest voices in the room. I’d be a fool not to."
For a moment, she just looks at me, and I wonder if she sees how much I mean it. How much I’ve always meant it .
She selects one oyster, adds a drop of mignonette sauce, and tips it into her mouth.
And God help me, something about the way she closes her eyes in appreciation makes me forget what we were discussing.
"You were saying about delegation?" she prompts.
"Right." I clear my throat again. "I've directed my team to prepare a comprehensive analysis of all salary data, broken down by gender, experience, and performance metrics. I want to see exactly where the discrepancies lie."
"And then what? Reports don't fix pay gaps, Alex. Actions do."
"Which is why I've set aside budget for immediate adjustments where discrepancies can't be justified by performance or experience."
"And the board approved this?"
"The board doesn't know yet."
Now she really does look surprised. "You're going against your board?"
"I'm doing what's right for the company. The board will see the business case once we have the complete data. Until then..." I shrug. "What they don't know won't hurt them."
"Alexander Drake," she says, eyeing me like I'm a particularly interesting specimen, "are you actually telling me you're planning to secretly adjust women's salaries without board approval?"
"I'm telling you I'm addressing a critical issue that affects company morale, productivity, and our ability to attract and retain top talent."
"That's a yes in CEO-inese.”
"If you like."
She sits back, wine glass in hand. "Why tell me this? Why not just do it quietly and take credit later?"
It's a fair question, and one I've asked myself on the drive over. Why am I sharing this with her, of all people ?
I straighten. “Because you were right. And because I think you can help make sure we do this correctly."
"Me? The champagne terrorist?"
I allow myself a grin. “Yes. You. The corporate culture consultant with twenty years of experience and a knack for identifying precisely what's wrong with tech leadership."
Our main courses arrive, the server presenting them with flourish. Mac looks down at her halibut, then back at me.
"So this isn't just dinner.” She blinks up at me. "It's a pitch."
"It's both." I cut into my venison. "I believe people can accomplish more over good food and wine than in boardrooms."
"Is that why you tip the sommelier so much when you come here?”
“I—what?”
"Emma talks. Actually, the entire staff talks. You use wine to win people over. Because, let’s face it…You're not exactly known for your warm, approachable leadership style."
"And yet here I am, being warm and approachable."
"Here you are, recruiting me to fix your company's gender pay gap after I publicly doused you in Dom Pérignon." She shakes her head. "The tech industry is bizarre."
"Says the woman who accepted a job from the CEO she champagne-showered.”
The conversation flows more easily after that, shifting between strategy and personal anecdotes. By the time dessert arrives—a chocolate soufflé that Mac insisted was "necessary for proper strategic planning"—we've outlined a bold, transparent plan to close the pay gap. And for the first time in years, I feel like I’m actually leading, not just managing.
"The key," she says, savoring a spoonful of soufflé, "is transparency. Not just in fixing the gap, but in acknowledging it existed in the first place."
"Public acknowledgment creates liability. "
"Secret adjustments create mistrust." She points her spoon at me. "You need to own this, Alex. Show that you recognize the problem and are committed to fixing it. The good publicity will outweigh the bad."
"The board won't see it that way."
"Then help them see it." Her tiny chin tilts up. "This isn't just about numbers. It's about people—women who've been undervalued and underpaid for years while contributing just as much, if not more, than their male counterparts."
There's a sharpness to her expression now—a personal edge to her advocacy that makes me curious. "You sound like you've experienced this firsthand."
She hesitates, then sets down her spoon. “Let’s just say that for a fair amount of the times I’ve heard some male coworker got the position because he had 'greater leadership potential' and 'more executive presence,’ it actually meant?—”
"That he has a penis.”
She blinks. “Pretty much.”
I nod, understanding.
With Mackenzie Gallo, every word she utters is like a dagger that drives home. It seems every time I’m around the consultant, I open another window into the woman herself—windows I’m suddenly wanting open more and more.
By the time the bill arrives, I realize that my shoulders are relaxed. My body’s relaxed. I’m relaxed.
This was…fun, as hard as that might be to admit.
As we stand to leave, I notice several other diners watching us. Mac notices, too.
"Great," she mutters. "I give it twelve hours before Keith starts a rumor that we're secretly plotting a corporate overthrow."
"Only twelve? You underestimate him.”
She laughs, and I find myself reluctant to end the evening. Outside, the valet brings my car around .
“Really?" Her gaze follows the Rolls Royce. "This is a bit on the nose, isn't it?"
"It's reliable," I defend.
"It's a rolling billboard that says 'compensating for something.'"
"I can assure you, Ms. Gallo.” My stare drills into hers. “I have never needed to compensate for anything in my entire life.”
Her eyes flick briefly downward, then back to my face. I can see her small throat move even in the relative dark.
I glance around. “The car I sent for you…”
It’s here.
The black sedan pulls up, and like the gentleman I’ve been raised to be, I open the back door.
Mac moves forward, but stops just before stepping inside. "Thank you for dinner," she says finally.
"Thank you for the insights."
"And for not firing me after my champagne assault."
"Oh, I definitely considered it. But then I realized how boring board meetings would be without someone challenging every word out of my mouth."
She shakes her head. "I do enjoy watching Gerald's blood pressure rise every time I speak."
"It's a particular shade of purple when you mention 'emotional intelligence.'"
She smiles, and for a moment, the humid Seattle air feels even heavier.
Until her phone chimes.
She checks it, her expression shifting.
"My sister.” She gathers her purse. "Apparently my grandmother is threatening to disown me for not paying her a ‘proper visit’.”
"Sounds serious."
"Nonna doesn't make idle threats. ”
The formidable brunette blinks as I reach out a hand to help her in the sedan’s back seat. But she takes it.
She starts to move, but I don't let go immediately. My thumb brushes against the inside of her wrist, lingering just enough to feel her pulse beat in double-time. Her lips parting, she inhales, her brown eyes darkening.
Her gaze drops.
Not to the car…but to my mouth.
I lean closer, heat rolling off me as my grip subtly tightens. Her breath catches, and for a fleeting second, I'm certain she's leaning in too.
But the distant chime of her phone again snaps her back. She withdraws, her fingers slipping from mine, leaving a phantom heat that travels up my arm and settles somewhere south of my belt, just as my ‘dinner date’ glances at her phone and sighs.
I smirk. “Family obligations wait for no one.”
Mackenzie steps into the car but pauses, turning back toward me, her eyes lingering. “Goodnight, Alex.”
“Goodnight, Mac.”
She disappears inside, and I shut the door. Takes me several seconds of watching the car drive off before I go to my own.
Pulling away from the restaurant, I try not to let the evening replay in my mind.
But that’s hard to do.
Especially when my phone is buzzing at the traffic lights.
Grayson again.
GRAYSON: So? Bachelor pact status report required. On a scale from 'still safely single' to 'buying rings,' how screwed are you?
I set the phone aside without answering.
The bachelor pact has stood for twenty years. I plan on it standing for another twenty more—at least .
I turn the Rolls toward home, Seattle's rain beginning again in earnest, washing the city clean for a new day.
Tomorrow, I'll start to make good on my promises to Mac.
But tonight, driving through the slushy streets, I allow myself to consider that perhaps the most dangerous revolution Mac Gallo has started isn't in my company.
It's in my perception of what ‘change’ might look like.
Tightening my grip on the steering wheel, I brush the thought away, refocusing back on the business. My business. The only thing that matters here.