Chapter Five Break Out of Your Comfort Zone
Chapter Five
Break Out of Your Comfort Zone
London, England
I’m in my hotel room on Wednesday morning, towel drying my hair when I get a text.
Unknown number: Did you enjoy the cookies?
I stare down at the phone, amused, and I shake my head.
Alessia: Who is this?
Unknown number: Your secret admirer.
Unknown number: It’s Hart. I figured I should clarify because a woman like you undoubtedly has many admirers.
Is he flirting? Is that what’s happening here?
My stomach flips.
I finish combing out my damp hair and watch my reflection as I apply serum, eye cream, and then facial moisturizer with SPF. When you’re on the cusp of turning thirty-eight, your skin-care regime is no joking matter.
Alessia: I did enjoy the cookies. Thank you again.
Alessia: Are you having fun in London?
Part of me knows I shouldn’t encourage him. I’m old enough to know better, but I have to admit, his attention is ... kind of nice. Flattering, to say the least.
Rather than reply to my text, he calls. My stomach dips and I quickly answer.
“Hello?” I sound nervous, almost breathless.
“Hello, Alessia.” His voice is deep, smooth. Confident.
“How did you get my number?”
He chuckles. “Your assistant graciously offered me your business card when I was leaving the office on Monday.”
Joslyn. Of course she did. I make a mental note to fire her tomorrow. I’m kidding, I love Joslyn, but I have no idea why she’d be encouraging whatever this is.
“Have dinner with me.” It’s a statement, not a question. “Tonight.”
Dinner? That could be awkward. Awkward isn’t the right word, though, because talking to him is actually very comfortable. Maybe it’s that he makes me feel things I’m not entirely comfortable feeling.
“I can’t tonight. I have a business dinner.” My dinner tonight is with a consulate from the British embassy. It’s certainly not something I’m going to reschedule on a whim.
“Tomorrow then.” I must hesitate too long because Hart adds, “I’ll meet you in the lobby of your hotel at six. Where are you staying?”
“The St. James’s,” I reply.
“See you at six tomorrow.”
I shrug out of the hotel robe and dress for a full day of business meetings with potential donors, a check-in with my staff in Indonesia, and an interview with a journalist. Plus, I need to make time to work on my blog.
I can’t help but wonder about Hart’s intentions, though—about whether our dinner tomorrow is related to his family’s investment that I’m still waiting to hear about, or something more personal. Is his sudden interest in me business or pleasure?
The following day, the weather is mild, and I opt for a denim minidress in red—my favorite color—that ties at the shoulders.
It’s dressy but also casual, and I couple it with a pair of black Valentino booties.
My hair is styled in long waves, and I’ve touched up my makeup, applying red lipstick and a spray of light perfume on my wrists.
At five minutes to six, I take the elevator down to the lobby of my hotel. Hart didn’t mention where we were going, though he did check in with me last night—just a simple text saying he hoped my meetings had gone well, and that he was looking forward to dinner tonight.
It was polite, but still provided no indication of how he viewed tonight’s date. A business dinner? Something else?
Stepping off the elevator, I stroll toward the exit, my heeled booties clicking across the marble floor. I spot Hart standing near the bellhop desk. Everything about him radiates confidence, wealth, and power.
He’s wearing a tailored black jacket, a fitted white shirt, and dark-gray trousers. He looks young—his skin is perfect, and his hair is artfully messy. When he turns and spots me, he’s quiet for several minutes, and I worry I’ve underdressed.
I stop in front of him, lifting my chin to meet his gaze. “Hello,” I say softly.
“You look stunning,” he murmurs finally. “You are stunning.”
I look down, overwhelmed by his undivided attention, before blinking back up at him. “Thank you.”
“Should we go?”
I nod.
He leads the way, opening the door for me, and we head off into the night.
The restaurant is gorgeous, almost everything inside is dark—rich mahogany floors, wood-paneled walls, navy upholstered chairs, and banquettes. It’s dimly lit with huge crystal chandeliers suspended above us. It’s extremely romantic—an odd choice if this is a business dinner.
We’re led to a private table in the back, and Hart pulls out my chair before sitting down across from me.
“Is this okay?”
I nod, taking in his appearance. The confident, boyish charm that radiates off him.
“It’s perfect.”
“Should I ask for a wine list? I recall you liking cabernet.”
“Sure. I’m surprised you remember.”
“I remember everything about the night we met.”
“Everything?”
But he’s spared from answering when the middle-aged server appears to greet us and fill our water glasses. Hart asks if he has a recommendation for a cabernet.
“Sure.” He straightens his posture, folding a white cloth napkin over his forearm. “We have two that are quite nice. One from California and another from Italy.”
“Italy,” Hart and I say at the same time, sharing a conspiring look.
“Very good. Two glasses?”
We nod and the server bustles away.
Hart looks at me, really looks at me like he’s captivated by a priceless piece of art. “So, Alessia, what do you do when you’re not saving the world?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Yes, I would.”
“You are amusing, Hartford ...” I pause, realizing I don’t know his middle name.
“Fitzgerald,” he says with a chuckle.
“Hartford Fitzgerald Winthrop.” It’s a bit of a mouthful.
“I’m named after my great-great-grandfather.”
It’s a fussy, stuffy name, but the man in front of me is none of those things. He’s warm and open and friendly.
“Why do I amuse you?” he asks.
Rather than answer him, I revisit his original question. “What do you want to know?”
“Let’s start with why you’re still single.”
Still. How is it that one innocuous word can make me feel ancient?
“Next question,” I grumble.
He chuckles. “I want to know everything. Your hobbies. Interests. Secret fantasies.”
“Let’s see ...” I tap my chin thoughtfully. “My hobbies are hot yoga and reading. Interests ... providing access to clean drinking water and education for women in developing countries ...”
He smiles. “How very noble of you.”
“And as for secret fantasies ...” I lift one eyebrow suggestively.
His dimpled smile makes my stomach tighten.
Why am I encouraging him? This flirtation is nonsense and obviously headed nowhere, but the idea that I could pique the interest of a much younger man was just too appealing. Apparently, I have an ego.
I think about a summer I spent in Argentina flirting with an older boy.
I felt so out of my depth then, at just fifteen, unsure how I’d even attracted the attention of the good-looking nineteen-year-old with his own motorcycle.
But having his attention, trying to make him smile, hoping I would have something interesting enough to say that might make him stick around and forget about going off to join those his own age.
It was electric. Addicting. I have the same feeling with Hart.
Our server reappears to deliver two glasses of wine.
“Tell me something about you that no one else knows,” I say, lifting my wineglass to my lips.
Hart thinks about it for a moment. “For the first three years of my life, I was raised mostly by my Mexican nanny, Esperanza, and I spoke mostly Spanish. My mother was on the board of the Winthrop Foundation and was very busy at that time, and my parents had read somewhere that exposing a child to a second language from birth was excellent for brain development.”
He lifts his own wineglass and takes a sip.
“Anyway, on my fourth birthday I had an interview for some prestigious preschool, and they told my parents they were concerned about my progress with the English language and hired me a tutor. It was then that I learned I wasn’t Mexican, and I was devastated. ”
“You’re kidding,” I say, smiling.
He chuckles. “I’m not. My parents still tease me about it. Apparently, I’d cried and flung myself into Esperanza’s arms, refusing to believe it.”
I smile, imagining this play out. “Can you still speak Spanish?”
“Sí.”
“Spanish. Italian ... any other languages you speak?”
“A bit of French and Latin.”
“Latin? Isn’t that a dead language?”
“It is, but English, and many other languages, have Latin roots, so it was taught in my high school as a way to boost standardized test scores and increase the ability to learn other languages.”
My handbag is on my lap, and I can feel my phone buzzing. I consider ignoring it but decide to take a quick glance just in case it’s something important.
Joslyn: The Winthrops are funding the project! 1M!!!
A tidal wave of emotion surges through me, and for a second, I worry I might do something embarrassing, like cry. This is the largest single donation we’ve ever received. It’s overwhelming. Swallowing down the reaction, I turn the phone toward Hart and show him the text.
His grin is immediate. “Good. I’m glad they told you. We decided right after the meeting with you, but our team needed a few days to pull the details together.”
I place the phone inside my handbag with shaking fingers. “Thank you. You have no idea what this will mean for the girls of Kibera.” My voice is tight, and I have to blink away happy tears.
He eyes me through his lashes and lifts his glass. “Cheers, Alessia.”
“Cheers.” I clink the side of my wineglass to his.
We haven’t spoken about that night in Florence, and I’m not sure why, but the sudden urge to bring it up is too hard to ignore.
“The hotel in Florence ... why were you really there?” I ask.
He gives me a coy, almost shy look. “My family owns the hotel. I was there to check in on things.”
It makes sense now why he didn’t feel bad about destroying a potted plant. It was his plant.