Chapter 20 Rosanna
Chapter twenty
Rosanna
The kiss changes nothing and everything at once.
Three days later, and Seamus and I still haven't had the conversation he suggested. His schedule is suddenly packed with emergency meetings, late calls, and a business dinner that kept him out until after midnight.
We move through our morning routines with a new awareness of each other, small glances and momentary touches that acknowledge the shift between us without directly addressing it.
I notice everything now. The rhythm of his footsteps. The way he drums his fingers against his mug when something worries him. The quiet softening when he catches me looking.
My sketchbook is filled with fragments of him captured in quick, private studies—his hands (always precise in their movements), his profile as he reads, the rare moment when his guard drops completely and I glimpse the person beneath the polished exterior.
These sketches aren’t for anyone else. They’re how I make sense of what I don’t know how to say.
Luna would tell me I'm falling into exactly the trap she warned about. That I'm confusing circumstance with connection and mistaking proximity for compatibility.
Perhaps she'd be right.
Yet the kiss we shared had nothing to do with our contract or public perception; it existed in private space, motivated by mutual choice rather than external expectation.
Tonight, we're scheduled for what ERS calls a "cozy date night". It's a dinner at Angelo's, a family-owned Italian restaurant known for its intimate atmosphere and generations-old recipes.
The reservation is for seven o'clock, to take advantage of prime visibility.
Marissa’s email suggested “affectionate but tasteful interaction.” Translation: hold hands. Share dessert. Look believable.
I wonder if the real connection forming between us will be visible beneath the choreographed intimacy.
More importantly, I wonder if tonight will be enough to finally bring up the conversation we've been circling since the moment everything changed. Maybe after dinner, when we are out of the spotlight.
Angelo’s glows against the darkening sky, red-checked curtains and weathered brick promising romance on demand.
Seamus holds the door for me as we enter, his hand resting lightly at the small of my back. It's a gesture that once felt calculated but now carries a different quality of connection.
The owner greets us personally, his accent thick as he leads us to a corner table partially screened by a trellis covered in artificial grape vines and fairy lights.
It's perfect for ERS's purposes—private enough for intimate conversation but visible enough to be noticed by other diners.
"You look beautiful," Seamus says after we're seated.
He seems different tonight. He's still controlled, still precise in his movements, but with a subtle relaxation in his posture, a warmth in his gaze that hasn't been filtered through strategic consideration.
I'm wearing a simple emerald dress that brings out the flecks in my eyes, my hair loose around my shoulders instead of in its usual practical knot.
His appreciation seems genuine rather than obligatory, another small shift in the evolving dynamic between us.
The meal unfolds with unexpected ease, our conversation flowing naturally from my current illustration project to his early interest in architecture before business school, from childhood memories to shared observations about the city we both love despite our different perspectives on its development.
We order family-style, sharing dishes passed between us with growing comfort in each other's space.
When Seamus reaches across the table to brush a strand of hair from my face, the gesture contains none of the calculated performance that characterized our early public appearances.
His fingers linger against my cheek for a moment, and I lean slightly into the contact, no longer certain where the line between performance and genuine connection lies.
As our dessert arrives (tiramisu to share, with two forks as Marissa suggested) Seamus's phone buzzes with an incoming call.
He glances at the screen and frowns slightly, the first disruption to the warmth of the evening.
"I need to take this," he says, genuine regret in his tone. "It's Malcolm."
I nod understanding as he steps outside for privacy, watching through the window as his posture shifts back into corporate mode, shoulders squaring and expression becoming unreadable as he listens to whatever his COO is saying.
When Seamus returns to the table, something has shifted in his demeanor—a tension around his eyes, a slight rigidity in his movements that wasn't there before. He offers a tight smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, apologizing for the interruption with practiced politeness.
"Business never respects dinner hours," I say lightly, trying to recapture the ease of our earlier conversation.
He nods, though his mind seems partially elsewhere, processing whatever information Malcolm delivered. Rather than press for details, I take a different approach, reaching into my bag for the small sketchbook I always carry.
"The children's menu here is terrible," I declare, flipping to a blank page and beginning to sketch. "All generic cartoons and connect-the-dots that barely resemble food. Kids deserve better."
My pencil moves quickly across the paper as I redesign the children's menu with playful pasta characters, a maze shaped like a plate of spaghetti, and small illustrations telling the story of how different pasta shapes came to be.
Seamus watches my hands with evident fascination, his attention gradually returning fully to our table, to this moment.
The business tension doesn't disappear entirely, but it recedes as he engages with my creative process.
"May I?" he asks, gesturing to the menu design.
When I slide it toward him, he studies it with the same focused attention he would give to architectural plans or financial projections.
"The structure is excellent," he observes, tracing the layout with one finger.
The assessment is so characteristically Seamus—finding the underlying order within creative expression—that I can't help smiling.
He may approach the world differently than I do, but his perspective doesn't diminish mine; it complements it.
We leave the redesigned menu with our server, who seems delighted by the unexpected gift.
Outside the restaurant, the spring evening has turned cool, stars visible between buildings in the clear night sky. Seamus removes his jacket and places it around my shoulders without comment, the gesture automatic rather than calculated.
As we walk toward the waiting car, I find myself laughing at something he says (a dry observation about the restaurant owner's enthusiastic hand gestures) and the sound seems to catch us both by surprise.
When was the last time I laughed so freely in his presence? When did this arranged partnership begin to feel like genuine companionship?
He looks down at me, something soft and wondering in his expression, and for a moment I think he might kiss me again, here on the sidewalk without cameras or audience expectations.
A figure emerges from between parked cars, camera raised, voice sharp with provocative intent. "Mrs. O'Malley! Any comment on the Heritage project?"
I blink against the lingering spots in my vision, feeling Seamus tense beside me, his hand tightening around mine.
The paparazzo continues, sensing vulnerability and pressing his advantage. "Are you less invested now that your husband is basically guaranteed a payout? Does that make you a sellout?"
His camera keeps clicking.
Seamus steps slightly in front of me, his movement protective rather than controlling.
"Don't talk about my wife that way," he says, voice level but with an undercurrent of steel. "Now, step aside."
The photographer continues snapping pictures, clearly hoping to provoke a more dramatic reaction.
The car arrives with perfect timing, our driver pulling smoothly to the curb.
Seamus guides me inside with a hand at my elbow, his touch gentle despite the tension radiating from him.
***
Alone, I sink onto the edge of my bed and press my palms to my eyes.
This was supposed to be simple.
I was supposed to protect my dream and keep my heart out of it.
Instead, I’m lying here thinking about the way he brushed my hair from my face. The way he looked at me across the table. The way he said, Don’t talk about my wife like that.
My husband.
My pretend husband.
I reach for my sketchbook before I can stop myself.
The Seamus Project has taken over half the pages now—boyhood curls, fencing whites, sharp suits.
This time, I draw him kissing my cheek.
His side of the page is charcoal. Clean lines. Controlled shadow.
Mine blooms in color.
The line between us should be clear.
It isn’t.
My pencil drags color past the border.
Into his hair—bold red hair with a hint of curls breaking through gray.
Into his eyes—green layered over graphite.
A scatter of freckles across the bridge of his nose.
I close the sketchbook gently.
The truth spreads through me like ink dropped in water—slow, dark, impossible to pull back.
I’m not pretending anymore.
I’ve fallen for him.