CHAPTER ELEVEN #2
They sat at the dining table while Nat described the call.
Michael listened without interrupting until she reached the preliminary financial terms. Then he asked questions about the advance schedule, royalty percentage, escalators, subsidiary rights, and whether the second book carried a separate acceptance clause.
“I knew the numbers would awaken you,” Nat said.
“They should be reviewed carefully.”
“Grace is handling the contract.”
“She should. You should still understand it.”
“I will.”
Michael studied her face. “You are not worried about the terms yet.”
“Not today.”
“That is reasonable.”
Nat leaned back. “Please document the time. Michael Conroy has authorized delayed concern.”
“I did not authorize it. I identified it as reasonable.”
“Your celebration language needs streamlining.”
He opened the champagne. The cork struck the ceiling and dropped onto the dining table. Michael looked upward, checking for damage.
Nat laughed. “That may be the least controlled thing I have ever seen you do.”
“The pressure exceeded my estimate.”
“Put it on your dating résumé.”
They carried their glasses to the kitchen, where Nat removed one of the chilled custards. Michael tasted it and declared the texture consistent.
“The proper response is delicious,” she said.
“I was assessing the result.”
“You’re celebrating with the woman who made it.”
He took another spoonful. “It is delicious.”
“See? Growth.”
They stood beside the counter sharing the custard directly from the ramekin. Nat told him that the revised platform section had been mentioned specifically in the acquisitions discussion. Michael reminded her that the growth belonged to her work, not his analysis.
“You made them see it,” she said.
“I arranged the information.”
“That mattered.”
“Yes.”
He accepted the gratitude without trying to return all of it to her. That, more than the champagne, made the moment feel shared.
At three fifteen, Michael looked at his watch. “I should return to the office.”
“You came home for seventy-four minutes?”
“Seventy-six by the time I leave.”
“That is almost reckless.”
“I informed my supervisor.”
“Then some structure survives.”
He placed his empty glass in the sink. “Does the offer change tomorrow?”
Nat had known the question was coming, but the quiet way he asked it made her heart move.
“No,” she said. “Unless your planned date involves celebrating a professional disappointment.”
“It does not.”
“Then it improves tomorrow.”
Michael nodded. “Seven o’clock.”
She walked him to the door. “Still no spreadsheet?”
“Still no spreadsheet.”
“Did the champagne affect your memory?”
“No.”
Nat caught his shirt and kissed him once before releasing him. “Now you can go analyze something.”
“I was already doing that.”
She narrowed her eyes.
Michael left before she could demand clarification.
By six fifty-eight Saturday evening, Nat had changed clothes four times.
The problem was not that she owned nothing appropriate.
The problem was that she did not know what Michael had planned, and his only guidance had been that she should wear comfortable shoes and bring a light jacket.
Those instructions could indicate anything from an outdoor concert to a scheduled evacuation.
She finally chose a soft green dress that fell below her knees, flat leather sandals, and a cream jacket. She left the engagement ring in its box. If this was a real date, she did not want the symbol of the invented relationship between them.
Michael emerged from his bedroom at exactly seven wearing dark trousers and a white shirt beneath a navy jacket. His gaze moved over her, then lowered to her bare left hand.
“You’re not wearing the ring.”
“Do I need it?”
“No.”
“Then tonight belongs to us.”
The words seemed to catch him unprepared. “Yes.”
Nat picked up her bag. “Where are we going?”
“I made a reservation.”
“You’ve shared that classified information.”
“The remainder is not classified.”
“Excellent. Where are we going?”
“You will see.”
She stopped near the door. “Michael Conroy planned a surprise?”
“I planned an evening without providing you the itinerary.”
“That is a surprise.”
“It is withheld scheduling information.”
“Which is a surprise wearing an analyst costume.”
He opened the door for her. “We should leave.”
A car took them across the city, away from the restaurant district and toward an older neighborhood of brick storefronts and narrow tree-lined streets.
Michael gave the driver an address Nat did not recognize.
When they stopped, she looked through the window at a small shop with dark green trim and gold lettering across the glass.
HARROW & PAGEBOOKSELLERS
Nat turned to Michael. “A bookstore?”
“It closes at eight.”
“That sounds like a warning.”
“It is a scheduling fact.”
Inside, the store smelled of paper, polished wood, and the faint dust of books that had survived several owners. Tall shelves created narrow passages beneath hanging brass lamps. A gray-haired man behind the counter greeted Michael by name.
“You came back,” he said.
“As arranged.”
The man looked at Nat. “The kitchen collection is upstairs. Take as long as you like. I’ll lock the front at eight, but you can leave through the courtyard when you’re finished.”
Nat waited until they reached the staircase. “You arranged private bookstore access?”
“For thirty minutes.”
“That sentence may be the most attractive thing you have ever said.”
“I told him why I wanted it.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That you had received your first cookbook offer.”
Her steps slowed.
The second floor held cookbooks from nearly every era: worn community collections bound with plastic combs, glossy chef volumes, nineteenth-century household manuals, and slim paperbacks promising entire meals from one pot. A small table near the window displayed a handwritten card.
For Natalie—May your first book be used until the pages come loose.
Beside it lay a clothbound notebook and an old wooden spoon darkened by years of use.
Nat touched the notebook carefully. “What is this?”
“Mr. Harrow gives the notebooks to writers who hold events here. The spoon came from his wife’s kitchen. She died four years ago. He said she believed new cooks should inherit tools that already knew what they were doing.”
Nat looked toward the staircase, but the bookseller had remained below.
“You found this place for me?”
“I passed it several months ago.”
“You remembered it.”
“Yes.”
The simple answer carried the weight of every detail he had noticed and kept.
Nat opened the notebook. The first page was blank. For once, she had no immediate words to fill it.
“This is a very good date,” she said.
“It has only begun.”
“That sounds confident.”
“I planned it carefully.”
“I know.”
Michael tensed slightly, as if he expected the planning to count against him.
Nat slid her hand into his. “I like that you planned it carefully. I only object when you plan me.”
His fingers closed around hers. “I am learning the distinction.”
They explored the shelves until eight. Nat showed him a wartime cookbook that replaced eggs with powdered gelatin and a 1970s volume containing seventeen salads suspended in aspic. Michael studied the photographs with visible distrust.
“People served these voluntarily?” he asked.
“Usually to relatives.”
“That does not answer the question.”
“It answers more than you think.”
He selected a small book of regional bread recipes and purchased it before the owner locked the door. Nat protested that the notebook and spoon were already too much. Michael pointed out that the book was a separate expense and therefore unrelated to the objection.
“You cannot classify your way out of generosity,” she told him.
“I can distinguish purchases by purpose.”
“That is classification.”
“It is accurate classification.”