16. Easton
16
EASTON
T he board wants to change our meeting plans, and I understand why, but I’m not about to give on that. Then it’ll be one thing after another.
I decide to call my parents’ bluff.
And the board’s.
They all show up at the Red Horse. That’s a step on the right path. I’m a little shocked and a little relieved that Bea’s there as well. It would be harder to convince the board that she’s the woman I know she is if she chickened out on facing them.
But Bea is here, eyes bright, head high.
After everyone has found a seat, I stand. “You all made it. I’m delighted.” I force a smile, but I hope it doesn’t show. “Today, I’ve taken the liberty of ordering the exact same meal for every one of you. It’s the Japanese A5 Wagyu filet mignon. It’s been wet aged, and it’s the single most expensive steak you can order. It’s not even on the menu, generally speaking, but I wanted to make sure my board got the very best .”
It starts right away, of course. “But I don’t eat red meat,” someone says. Someone else sounds pretty grumpy when he says, “I only like my steak paired with red wine, and we’re not doing wine because it’s a working lunch.” The complaints grow from there.
I hold up my hand. “Don’t worry. I’ve also ordered two sides for the table, the Hipster fries which are covered in bacon, parmesan cheese, and these amazing shishito peppers, and the Brussels sprouts, which the chef assured me is a healthy option. And each of you will have the same appetizer as well—the tuna and salmon tartare.” As the complaints grow, my smile becomes less forced. “It’s fine,” I say, raising my voice so that they can hear me. “Those are the most expensive things on the menu. You’re sure to like them.”
“But I don’t like Brussels sprouts,” Mr. Dressel says. “Not when I was a kid, not with bacon, not ever.”
I slam my hands down on the table. “You know, this is exactly what you wanted to do for my women’s line.”
Everyone falls silent.
“For my company, which I built from the ground up practically alone, you wanted to slap a women’s line on from the moment you joined the team. And you hounded me to just come up with something, anything, as long as it was top of the line . My name, Sacrifice Nothing, would sell whatever it was, you insisted.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice that the dozen plates of tuna and salmon tartare have arrived. I nod at Bea, and she starts setting them in front of people.
“You may be seeing now that for wealthy people, for a luxury brand, having something be top of the line isn’t enough. The kind of people who pay top dollar want something that’s just right for them . So when I pitched a better idea, the best idea, that we should meet with a curated list of designers and as part of our label, offer a service in which we find them the very best items for them , and offer it only for someone related to our existing customers, you leapt at the idea.” I make eye contact with each one of them, slowly. “But I was inspired to do that right here, by this woman.” I point at Bea.
She freezes.
“You wanted everyone to be offered only salmon tartare, which would have been a terrible idea. A lot of this fine food is going to go to waste today, unnecessarily. Bea gave me a better idea, and now you want me to dump her because she’s honest .”
“That’s not why,” Mr. Dressel says, poking at his salmon tartare with a sour face. “It’s because, while at a party with you, she slandered your company and its customers.”
“Slander is saying something false.” I arch one eyebrow. “She gave her opinion, which stung because it was mostly true.”
“You should be as upset as we are,” Mr. Jimenez says. “She said people who buy from your brand have holes in their soul. You’ll look pretty stupid if you keep dating her.”
“I think I’d look pretty stupid for dumping someone I really like just because she disagreed with me.” I frown. “If one of you made an error, should I just eliminate you immediately?”
“You can’t fire us,” Mrs. Yaltzinger says. “We’re the board.”
I roll my eyes. “What if an employee makes a mistake? Is that your only solution? Elimination?”
“But she isn’t an employee, and you didn’t even know her three weeks ago,” Mr. Dressel says.
I wish I could fire him. He’d already be gone. “I’m going to recommend we table further discussion of this until you’ve told me how our plans are going for the women’s line.”
That gets them moving, at least. My design team came up with a list of labels we should talk to about joining our new initiative. I’ve talked to a few on the phone—broad strokes—but it takes the better part of an hour to work out which ones we think we should work with and why.
“You’ll be pretty busy meeting with all of them,” Mrs. Yaltzinger says. “I doubt you’ll even have time to date.”
“You’d be surprised how good I am at multitasking.” I glare at her.
By the end of the meal, they still seem pretty upset, but it’s only been two days. “I think we should all do our work this week,” I say. “We can revisit this issue next week.”
“You’re hoping it’ll blow over and then it won’t be an issue,” Mr. Dressel says.
“It would be nice.”
“I guess,” Mr. Jimenez says. “We can see whether it blows over, but if this worsens, or worse, lingers.” He shakes his head.
“I agree,” Mrs. Yaltzinger says. “We can postpone this conversation for a week if you insist. But the conversation must be had unless this miraculously disappears.”
I’m sure it will disappear. It’s not as if anyone has any reason to focus on a tiny little blip like this. This time, when I pay, Bea’s nowhere to be found. Surely she heard enough of our conversation to be convinced that I don’t mean to give up .
“Looking for someone?” The manager raises one eyebrow. “Someone small with dark hair, maybe?”
“Where did she go?”
“I did tell her she can wait on this table and be done for the day each Tuesday,” he says. “But last time. . .”
“Last time?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “I’m sure she’ll pop up.”
Only, I don’t see her on my way out, either. I’m just fishing my phone out to call her in the parking lot when I see her, peering at a grey SUV. “Bea?”
She jumps like she’s been caught picking her nose at a fancy dinner. “Easton?”
“What are you doing?”
“I didn’t want to meet any of them out here, so I thought I’d wait by your car,” she says. “Only. . .is this it? I thought it was lighter than this.”
I laugh. “That’s an Acura. I have a Volvo.”
She blinks. “But I don’t see?—”
“I didn’t drive the XC90 today.” I can’t help my smile. “There may still be a few things about me for you to learn.”
“Then. . .which one is yours?” She looks around. “I didn’t see a 4Runner either.”
“If you guess correctly, I’ll take you to dinner anywhere you want.” I gesture around. “Which do you think?”
She spins slowly, narrowing her eyes, and that’s when I realize I have her. If she was going to insist on dumping me for the good of my company, she would have left already. She wouldn’t be searching for my car.
I toss her my keys.
They nearly hit her in the face, but at the last minute she pops her hand up and catches them. “Easton!” In that moment, for the first and hopefully last time, she actually reminds me of my mother. Then she glances at the keys. “A Porsche ?” She laughs. “That’s more like it.”
“More like it?”
“I was surprised you had such weird-old-married-man-in-the-suburbs kind of cars,” she admits. “I figured you’d be more like Jake.”
“His car’s ghastly,” I say. “Mine’s a very nice black.”
“A black Porsche.” Now she’s searching in earnest, and it only takes her half a dozen seconds before she points triumphantly and pumps her fist. “And I want dinner at Per Se. ”
“Where?”
“It’s the place your horrible date was bragging about having been.” She folds her arms. “A place that I’ve never been.”
“Great,” I say. “If I can get a reservation, we’ll go.”
Her shoulders sag. “It’s always booked out.”
“Lemme call Ace real quick,” I say. “He’s better with stuff like this, and he owes me.”
“More like he owes me,” she mutters, which is cute. She did land in hot water thanks to the favor he asked me to do.
Two minutes later, we have a reservation. “We’re on. Hop in.” I wave at the car, which currently only she can unlock.
“But what about my car?” She asks. “And I can’t go in this.” She looks down at her white button down and black pants. “And it’s barely two in the afternoon. No proper date starts at three. Surely you have work to do?”
“Fine. I’ll tell Ace to set it for seven. Is that a more proper start time for you?”
“Come pick me up at the house at six, then?” She looks up at me with the biggest, most beautiful eyes.
“Done,” I say. “But don’t back out. ”
“I wouldn’t dare,” she says. Just as my heart is doing a little flippy flop, she adds, “Because their goats’ milk cheese is legendary.”
“Way to make a guy feel special.”
She goes up on her tiptoes and brushes a kiss against my cheek. “You were pretty close to legendary earlier, too.”
Then she spins on her heel and marches off, like she wasn’t just as spectacular herself.
When I get back to the office, my assistant practically clubs me over the head with a list of brands and various dates for meetings. After I dig my way through that, I head home straight away.
On our first date, the first time I ever picked Bea up to take her out, I knew just what to wear. I had, in fact, chosen the place. But tonight, I flounder a bit. Without a theme—western wear—or a stylist to tell me what to wear, I’m a little unsure. I do look up Per Se to verify that it’s a three Michelin star restaurant in Manhattan, and that means I should probably dress up, but I change my pants and shoes so many times that I realize I’m in danger of being late myself to pick her up.
Which is why I speed.
And that’s how I get a ticket.
The night may not be off to the best start, but when I knock on Bea’s door, and she answers, I forget all about every other thing that led up to this moment. Beatrice Cipriani, in a floor length gown, is absolutely show-stopping.
“You—”
She wipes her mouth. “Is my lipstick smudged?” Her eyes widen. “Or did I get something on the dress?” She looks down .
I shake my head dumbly. “No, nothing like that. But you look. . .”
She winces. “Is it dumb? I bought it on clearance three years ago, and I’ve never had anywhere to wear it.” She tugs on the bodice, trying to pull it up, I think, which is a huge mistake. “I almost wore it to Emerson’s wedding, but then your sister asked me to be a bridesmaid. I was actually a little relieved, because it’s a little too daring in the front.”
I snag her wrist and lower her hand, interlacing our fingers. “It’s perfect. Even the Devil who wears Prada wouldn’t be able to find fault with this.”
She rolls her eyes. “That was kind of the point of that movie, you know—she found fault with absolutely everything.”
I shrug. “I didn’t really see the movie. My sister was nattering on about. . .” I pause. “You know what? Doesn’t matter. The point is that you couldn’t look more beautiful, but thanks to some stuff at work, we’re cutting it close. We should go.”
“What’s the stuff with work?” she asks.
Sometimes people ask about work—my parents, usually—and it’s obvious they don’t really want to know. But the way she asked, it feels like she actually cares. “Well, we’re launching a new. . .service? We’re branching out into women’s style.”
“That’s huge,” she says.
I open her door, and she pauses to raise one eyebrow. “I know it’s a corny thing to do these days, but with you in that dress. . .” I shake my head. “You look like you’re headed for a red carpet event. What was I supposed to do?”
“It’s nice,” she says softly.
She has this way of being small, of being so quiet, that if she wasn’t so stunning, she’d almost disappear. I love it, how demure and understated she can be—and I hate it. Because I’m not sure where it came from, her desire to shrink, to make herself smaller. She was clearly born to shine, not to hide. I mean to draw her out. I mean for the world to see what a rockstar she really is.
Once I’m seated and buckled and ready to go, I continue. “I have to make the calls to set up the meetings with the other brands myself.” I explain the idea to her.
“Wow,” she says. “That’s. . .ambitious.”
“I mean, it is and it isn’t,” I say.
“But won’t all the other brands be able to steal your idea if you call and tell them about it?”
“Every other brand we’re contacting already has a women’s line,” I say. “So they wouldn’t be able to do this, because they’d be in direct competition with all the vendors they’d reach out to about it.”
“What if they specialize in shoes?” I ask. “They could still reach out to other perfume, jewelry, or clothing vendors.”
I shrug. “We currently provide nearly everything in the luxury world. . .for men. None of the other brands have the depth we have without having a corollary for women.”
“So you knew you had a weakness, of sorts.”
“I always focus on my strengths,” I say, “and until recently, my sister and mother were my only connection to or insight into women.”
“I don’t hate hearing that.” She’s doing it again, being small, but I can’t help it. I kind of like it, too. It kicks my protective instincts into overdrive.
“There really wasn’t anyone before you, Bea.”
She’s smiling as we make our way into the City .
Once we reach the restaurant, though, she shuts down a little bit. “Are you alright?” I ask as they seat us.
She nods.
“Something’s bothering you.”
There’s no menu—not at places like this. They have a dozen or so courses and everyone gets them. It’s a special kind of arrogance to assume that your food is so good that everyone will like all of it, but that’s part of the whole ambiance at the triple Michelin starred places.
“Come on,” I press. “What’s wrong?” She went from excitedly telling me about the song she’s been working on to shutting up like a clam.
She waits for the waitress to disappear, and then she looks both ways like we’re planning some kind of covert operation. “It’s not that I’m upset—it just feels strange, sitting here as a customer.”
She’s stinking adorable. “Well, get used to it.”
Her eyes narrow. “Why?”
“I plan to take you out every single chance I get, to places like this as often as you want.”
She rolls her eyes.
“I mean it,” I say. “And once your songs are famous, you’ll be the one taking me.”
“Famous?” She snorts. “I’d have been delighted with jingles.”
“Your song launched Jake’s career. True or false?”
She shakes her head. “Jake’s face launched Jake’s career. His physique. His timing and his expressions. That song. . .” She shrugs. “It was a step stool.”
“But that’s all you need, really,” I say. “You need one break, and you have to be smart enough to take it when it comes.” I brace my arms on the table and lean a little closer. “So tell me you’re entering that contest with the song you’ve been working on. ”
She sits back. “I don’t know.”
“What’s holding you back?”
“I looked it up—if I make it to the finals, I have to perform my own song. . .not just a jingle. An actual performance, and it’s going to be live-streamed.”
That’s a hard one. I even get some of her reticence now. I haven’t pressed to know more about her grandfather, but clearly there’s some baggage there. I just can’t tell how much of her concerns are because she has never been taught to believe in herself and how much is just because she doesn’t enjoy things like this.
“I can do it,” she says. “I mean, I can probably do it, but the problem is that the further I go, the more they’ll want me to do it. And that’s not even the only. . .”
The waitress brings our first course.
I’m happy, because Bea looks delighted. Even if it’s barely more than a single bite of some kind of fruit tart, artfully shaped like a butterfly, she loves it.
So I love it.
But I also want to know what she was going to say.
“You said that’s not the only reason. . . you were worried about the contest?” I feel like an interrogator, but I doubt she’d come back to it. I can’t help her if I don’t know what’s standing in her way.
“Writing jingles may seem meaningless,” she whispers, “but it’s also safe.”
Safe? “You mean. . .legally safe?”
She smiles.
And the waitress brings our second course—some kind of foamy green soup that tastes like summer. It’s really pretty good for foam in a mushroom-shaped cup.
“The cup is edible,” the waitress says with a smirk.
“Wonderful.” I pop it into my mouth. “How many courses did you say there were? ”
“Fourteen.”
I’m going to kill her.
Bea’s giggling. “You didn’t look impressed. You looked irritated.”
“She has terrible timing.”
That sobers her. “Jingles promote a product, and all I have to do is come up with some catchy words and a solid melody. But with a real song, I’m sharing a message. Something personal. People can read into it, and they always do.”
“Sure,” I say. “That’s true. We all like singing the songs musicians share, because they resonate with us. That’s kind of the human experience.”
“I don’t want people to know how I feel,” Bea says. “That feels. . .like a violation.”
“Why?”
“You want everyone to know how you’re feeling?” Her eyebrows rise.
“I mean, they usually do.” I can’t help smiling. “You knew how I felt when I showed up at the Opus Westchester, right? So did my miserable date, Shelly.”
“Was that Miss Collagen USA’s name?” she asks.
“Like I remember.”
She’s giving me her irritated smile. “I grew up trying to make sure no one ever found out how I felt.”
“Why?”
“Are you a therapist?” She scowls. “It was just easier that way.”
“Were you angry a lot?”
When the waitress shows up, I contemplate telling her to lay off for twenty minutes, but Bea’s relief holds me off. I should stop pressing—she’ll open up when she’s ready. I hope. So for the rest of the meal, I don’t ask any questions. I don’t push about the song. I just make jokes. We chat about the food.
And then, just as dessert is coming out, she says, “Now the real test.”
“The real test?”
“My mom’s a great cook,” she says.
“Your mom?”
She smacks her forehead. “Seren.” She sighs. “I could call her Mom now, I guess. There’s no one who can do anything about it, but Grandfather had a rule. I could only stay with Dave and Seren as long as I never called them that. He was worried that people might find out his granddaughter was in a foster home.”
“And what does that have to do with this?” I point at the profiteroles. “They look pretty decent to me, although they aren’t exactly large.”
She pats her stomach and groans. “Thank goodness.”
The portions were small, but there were a lot of courses of them. “But?”
“Seren’s a pastry chef,” she says. “Her desserts are to die for, and after years and years of listening to her tell me how various places fall short, I’ll be curious how these rate.”
“And what should the perfect cream puff be like?”
“Well, it should be crisp on the outside—a little chewy, and filled with a light, brilliant burst of flavor.”
I pluck one from the center of the plate.
“You’re using your hands?” Tiny lines appear between her eyebrows.
“They’re the size of a grape. If I speared it with a fork, I’d be afraid it would roll off the plate and go flying across the floor.”
“Like a meatball? ”
“ On top of spaghetti ,” I say with a smile. “Did your mom sing that song?”
“Seren did.” She pops a profiterole into her mouth as well.
And then I wait for the verdict.
“Well?” she asks.
“I liked it.” I shrug. “But I’m not the critic here.”
She grabs another one.
“I’ll take the consumption of more as high praise.”
“I mean, shouldn’t it be good, though?” She pops the second one in her mouth. “I don’t even want to think about what these cost per bite.”
“I think I need to come try something made by this famous Seren, if this place can barely compare.”
“Maybe you should,” she says. “She’s actually instituting this new thing, Sunday dinners. If you can behave, I might take you along some time.”
I hold up both my hands. “I’ll be on my best behavior, I swear.”
Once I’ve paid the check and we’ve walked out to the car, I ask, “So? What was it like being on the other side for a night?”
She rolls her eyes. “The Red Horse doesn’t even have one Michelin star.”
I walk toward her, and she backs up against my car. “Having been a customer of both,” I say, “I think the Red Horse is definitely better.”
“You do?” She looks up at me, her chin lifting a hair more. “Really?”
I drop one hand to her left, my palm flattening against the top of my car. “The food’s more to my liking,” I whisper. Then I drop my other hand on the right side of her. “But the service at the Red Horse?” I shake my head slowly. “Not even comparable. ”
“Really.”
I nod slowly. “In fact, there’s this one waitress I just cannot get enough of. I actually forced my entire board to relocate our weekly meetings to her restaurant just so I’d have an excuse to see her.”
She arches one eyebrow. “You didn’t.”
I lean closer still, until our faces are less than two inches apart. “Don’t tell her, but I’d eat cardboard if she brought it to me, and I’d pay top dollar for the privilege.”
She presses one hand against my chest. “Easton.”
“Again,” I whisper.
“What?” Her eyes widen.
“Say it again.”
The slow smile that curls the corners of her mouth upward is delicious. “Easton.”
I drop my lips against hers, and thankfully, they’re a far cry from cardboard. They may be the softest thing I’ve ever felt. I can still taste a hint of cream puff, and I can’t help sucking her bottom lip into my mouth just a little.
She moans.
I pull her against me, flipping around to lean against the car myself, but it’s short. Way too short. I’m basically sitting on it, which is distracting. Why don’t I have a taller car? I’m buying nothing but SUVs, starting tomorrow.
Even the failures of my sportscar can’t distract me from Bea’s mouth—her little soft sigh, her hand, fisting around my shirt. “You—yes,” I hiss.
“You’re better than that meal,” Bea says.
That makes me smile.
Kissing someone while smiling is strange and beautiful. I could do it all day. “Thank you,” I say .
She pulls back.
“No, don’t do that.”
Her hand flattens, this time, keeping me away. “What did you just thank me for?” Her lips are compressed, but they’re twitching. With excitement? Merriment? Curiosity?
I sigh. “For not getting a restraining order when I kept showing up? For being the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met? For bringing light and joy into my life?”
She cocks her head sideways. “Easton.”
“Now you’re just spoiling me.”
“We should go home.”
“Yes.” I nod. “My place or yours?”
She slaps my arm, and I love that she knew me well enough to know it was a joke. At least, it was mostly a joke.
I’ve barely pulled out of the parking lot when my phone rings—and it’s an old friend. “I need to take this,” I warn her.
She nods, her expression earnest. “Oh, go ahead.”
I tap the green button to pick up Laurent’s call. “Hello?”
“You picked up!” His French accent always seems more pronounced when we haven’t spoken in a while.
“Isn’t it the middle of the night in Paris?” I ask.
“I’m in Shanghai,” Laurent says.
“What are you doing there?”
“I have another meeting soon—no time to get into all that.” Laurent clears his throat. “But Dad called me about your new proposal. He forwarded the whole thing to me.”
“That’s not promising,” I say. “To be totally honest, we need Barbier, or I’m not sure it will work.”
“We’re like your opposite—all the best women’s luxury goods, and all with a twist.” Laurent’s laugh comes out more like a bark. “Dad said the same.”
“Look, just tell me what I need to do?—”
“Dad loved the idea, but I should warn you. He loved you enough that he wants to buy your company.”
“ Buy us ?” Now I’m the one laughing. “You couldn’t afford to.”
“Dad and I can’t, but Grandfather could,” Laurent says, “and think about what a good fit it would be.”
“That’s not why I sent you the proposal,” I say.
“Fine.” He huffs. “Fine. Dad said you’d say no, but we at least wanted to ask. It would be a far-cry simpler than the service you’re setting up.”
“Simpler was never my forte,” I say.
“I suppose not,” Laurent says. “Not during school, and not now. But look, Dad has a few demands you’re not going to like.”
“Email them to me,” I say. “We’ll see what we can do.”
“What other brands are on board?” Laurent asks.
“You know I can’t tell you that. Not without a much more firm commitment.”
“Let me get with legal and we’ll send you something.”
We’re nearly to Bea’s place. “I’m so sorry I wasted our whole drive home,” I say.
“Wasted?” Bea’s frowning. “It sounded like an encouraging call.”
“It was,” I say. “We need Barbier—the board’s flipping out about it.”
“Well, it sounds like you have a good shot of bringing them in.”
I park. “As encouraging as that was, it was a long way from the best part of my day.” I lean toward her and brush another kiss against her perfectly shaped mouth .
She’s smiling when she hops out of the car and jogs to her apartment door. All in all, even if my date ran away at the end, I think things went pretty well.
My phone bings, and I whip it out. It’s from Bea, which makes me grin.
I TALKED TO LEGAL. HERE ARE MY DEMANDS—IF YOU WANT TO COME FOR SUNDAY DINNER.
She’s such a frigging delight. I DO, I text back immediately.
1. NO MORE DROP-INS WHILE I’M AT WORK
DONE, I text back.
2. YOU WILL DRIVE THE XC90 OR 4RUNNER
I smile. I THOUGHT YOU DIDN’T LIKE IT
DAVE AND SEREN ALWAYS MOCK JAKE FOR HIS CAR
DONE, THEN, I text.
WAIT, HOW MANY CARS DO YOU HAVE?
I PLEAD THE FIFTH.
THE FIFTH ONLY APPLIES IN A COURT OF LAW.
I DON’T THINK THAT’S TRUE. Or at least, whether it is or not, the last thing I need to do is confess that I have five. Three are parked at my parents’ house anyway, so there’s no need for her to know.
FINE. She sends an eye-roll emoji, and I can imagine her doing it in person. 3. YOU WILL NOT SAY A WORD ABOUT SEREN’S FAMOUS GRANDMOTHER
BUT I ALREADY KNOW ALL ABOUT HER—ELIZABETH TOLD US
OH, FINE. I’M FLEXIBLE ON NUMBER THREE
I THINK WE HAVE AN AGREEMENT, I text. BUT I NEED TO SEE YOU BEFORE SUNDAY. I CAN’T WAIT THAT LONG. HOW ABOUT TOMORROW?
I’M WORKING
WHAT ABOUT BEFORE WORK?
I’M GOING FOR A RUN TO WORK OFF THE 9,000 CALORIES I JUST ATE
I’LL COME
I never run. I’m going to die, but if it has to happen someday, it may as well be with Bea.