8. Simon
EIGHT
SIMON
The four of us walked down the street to the restaurant.
It was a tiny place wedged at the end of the block, the kind that looked as though it had been running so long it had stopped trying to look like anything special. There wasn't even a legible sign above the door I could read from the pavement.
Sloane led us inside without checking whether anyone objected to the choice. We settled around a battered wooden table by the front window. The chairs were all a little mismatched, and the menu was printed on a single laminated card. Violet sat across from me. Sloane sat next to Olivia.
I hadn't planned this. I'd been at the bookstore with Olivia because I'd spent eight months trying to build a Saturday routine with her, and a bookstore was one of the few public places she'd still agree to visit without being asked twice.
We'd been standing inside it less than ten minutes ago.
Now we were at a restaurant, Sloane was interrogating the server about the daily specials, and Olivia was already leaning forward in her chair, drawn in.
The last good meal I could remember sharing with anyone was before last year. I let out a quiet breath and picked up my menu.
Olivia and Sloane were deep in conversation before the server had finished writing down our orders.
I sat back and watched my grieving niece answer questions without a hitch.
She was animated, at ease in a room full of strangers on a regular Saturday afternoon.
I'd been killing myself trying to pull her to that point for eight months. Sloane had managed it in four minutes.
I thought about Elena. There was a hard irony in it, that an online author she'd never met was the only reason her daughter was sitting upright at a restaurant table on a Saturday, leaning forward and asking questions.
My sister would've had something pointed to say about that, the kind of witty, sharp remark I'd have argued with and then chewed on for days.
I shifted my gaze across the table to Violet.
She was watching Olivia and Sloane too. At one point she made a small, self-deprecating joke about being marched blindly into restaurants without being consulted. The whole table laughed. Then she dropped her gaze back to her laminated menu.
I set mine down on the wood. "So, is this what you usually get up to on the weekends?"
She turned to face me with a polite smile. "Not all the time. Sometimes I'm just at home sleeping, eating, or catching up on unfinished work." She tilted her head, turning the question back. "What about you?"
"I work out."
She gave a small nod, unsurprised. My build made that obvious.
"That's impressive. I've always wanted to get into the gym, but I'm far too lazy."
I glanced down at my empty plate. "Why would you want to?"
She looked at me, mildly confused. "I mean, other than to drop a little weight, it's just good to keep your body active. For health reasons."
I set my fork down. "There's nothing wrong with your weight, Violet. Why would you want to drop it? If you're worried about your heart, a walking pad is enough. You don't need to do much more than that."
She pulled her chin back, one eyebrow shooting up in surprise.
I'd said it like I meant it, because I did.
The way she'd framed it, drop a little weight, wasn't a conversation about cardio.
She had curves that drew the eye, whether you meant to look or not.
The few times I'd been close to her, passing documents over her desk, navigating a narrow hallway, sharing the private elevator, I'd clocked that she was soft in a specific way I didn't think should ever change.
There was nothing there that needed dropping.
"I know there's nothing wrong with my body," she said quietly, "but it wouldn't be a bad thing to lose a few pounds."
"You don't need to lose anything." I held her gaze. "You're perfect like this."
She dropped her eyes to the table. Her thumb moved over the edge of her silver fork. Finally she looked back up. "Try telling that to my ex. After we broke up, he went around telling all his friends I was too big for him. He's dating someone very slim now."
I picked up my water glass, anger spiking through my chest. "Where did you find such a colossal loser to date?"
She chuckled, the sound a little bitter. "We met back in college. He was fun and outgoing. I had a huge thing for party boys back then, unfortunately."
I swallowed hard. The image of a younger Violet picking someone so wrong for her lodged somewhere uncomfortable in my chest. "And you ended up regretting it."
She nodded, grim. "He wasn't a real man."
"He isn't a man at all," I corrected. "That's all there is to it." I set the glass down. "But is he the real reason you want to lose weight?"
She shook her head quickly. "Of course not. It's just for me."
"Are you uncomfortable in your own body?"
She shook her head again, slower this time.
"Okay," she admitted, "the truth is I probably just want to fit the current trend." She laughed at her own vanity. "Why do you work out so much?"
I answered without thinking. "To be able to lift women without effort."
She froze, staring at me.
I held her gaze, refusing to back down.
"Lara must've weighed nothing." Her voice dropped. "You didn't need to work out for that."
I smiled faintly and moved my attention back to my plate. "Yeah, but Lara and I broke up. What if I end up with someone built different?"
She lifted her brows in challenge. "So you don't have a specific physical type?"
"Why would I limit myself?" I shrugged. "Whatever your size is, what matters is that I like you as a person. But… I do lean toward softness."
"Softness?" she echoed.
"Yeah." I picked up my fork. "I want to be able to grab a handful of soft flesh."
Her eyes darted away from mine. The tips of her ears flushed a bright, violent pink. "Wow. That's a bit much, sir."
"Oh, please." I leaned back in my chair, enjoying the reaction. "We've already crossed a fair number of professional lines today."
She set her fork down and picked up her water glass, hunting for a distraction. "Certain lines, yes."
"Although there are some we shouldn't cross," I added.
"Yes," she agreed. "Certain firm boundaries."
I looked at her across the scuffed wooden table. She was studying her plate like it owed her money. "I'm sure you'd jump at the chance to cross those boundaries with the marketing team leader, though."
She burst out laughing, her head tipping back. "You're seriously still hung up on that?"
"I can't believe you called that man handsome." I leaned forward, resting my forearms on the table. "After our call last night, I pulled up the internal employee directory. I went through the whole department until I found a Caleb Brown in marketing."
She turned to look at me, her mouth falling open. "You actually looked him up?"
"I was curious. For a man to pull that many women in one office, I wanted to know what kind of competition I was dealing with."
She leaned forward, mirroring me with her elbows on the table. "And what did you think?"
His features were fine, his build was good, and his face was the kind that photographed well, and he probably knew it. "He's fine," I admitted. "His features are acceptable. He has a decent build." I paused and rolled my eyes. "Fine, yes, he's good-looking. But he looked like a narcissist."
She laughed again. "He totally is. And he hit on me, you know. Just like you, he apparently doesn't have a strict type."
I dropped my fork. "I'm nothing like that man."
"Sure, you're just not a philanderer," she teased.
"So he hit on you." I stared at her. "When did this happen?"
"In the elevator a few weeks ago. We were the only two in there. He made a pointed comment about my outfit and asked me out."
"Why on earth did you refuse?"
She pressed her lips together, a corner of her mouth twitching. "Who told you I refused?"
My smile dropped. "You told me you had nothing to do with him."
"Sexually. But he offered a free meal at a nice place. I had to take it." A beat of silence. "It was free steak, Simon."
I laughed, louder than I meant to. Olivia looked over from her side of the table, startled by the noise. "You're not serious."
"I'm serious. And after the date, he graciously offered to drive me home and stay for a late drink. That was the moment I turned him down."
I shook my head. "Men like that spread nasty rumors when they get rejected."
"Oh, please." She waved a hand. "He doesn't know what I look like naked. That's the only thing that matters."
"What do you look like—" I stopped myself. She raised both eyebrows at me in warning. I laughed and held my hands up in surrender. "Boundaries. I'm sorry. That just slipped out."
"Sure it did," she deadpanned.
"Oh, wow." Sloane's voice cut across the table. I looked up. She was watching the two of us, her chin resting in her hand. "Your teenage niece and I are still sitting right here, you know."
I shot a guilty glance at Olivia. She was stirring her milkshake with a straw, smiling down into the glass. "Not that we're complaining about the free entertainment," Olivia mumbled. "Please, go right ahead."
I laughed, my face warming, and turned back to Sloane. "Tell me what it is you do."
Sloane spread her hands out on the table, the backs covered in fine, detailed ink. "From looking at my hands, I'd think you could guess."
"Tattoo artist?"
She nodded, proud. "Violet was one of my very first clients."
I whipped my head back to Violet. "You have a tattoo?"
She shot a lethal glare across the table at Sloane before turning back to me. "Yes."
"Can I see it?"
"No, you cannot see it so casually," Sloane jumped in before Violet could speak. "There are two of them, actually. In very specific locations."
"Sloane," Violet hissed.
"Now I'm curious." I leaned back and crossed my arms. "Where are they?"
"They're in spots I can't describe out loud with Olivia sitting right here," Sloane teased.
Olivia slapped both hands over her mouth, her eyes going wide with delight.