Chapter 13
INA
Iturned left then right to check my reflection in the mirror for the fifteenth time. I wasn’t sure “upscale” meant the same thing to Lucas as it did to me. They needed to start sending me better intel on these dates. Spymaster Lucas was slipping.
When in doubt, a little black dress would never let you down.
Simple, classic, and I looked damn good in it.
I’d bought it on sale at Bloomingdale’s during my first week in New York, thinking I’d need it for networking events or fancy work parties.
So far, it had lived in my closet, tags still on, waiting for an occasion worthy of it.
I thanked “past me” for the foresight. I could never have known I would be wearing it on a fake date with Dane Kavanagh.
I paired it with simple black heels that were tall enough to make me feel elegant instead of like I was playing dress-up.
My hair was down in loose waves, my makeup carefully applied.
I’d even splurged on a shade of lipstick not too different than the one Gloria had chosen for me on the commercial shoot.
I liked it. It made me feel strong, sexy, and confident. I also felt like I was going to throw up from nerves, so the lipstick couldn’t work complete miracles. I would take what I could get, though.
Lucas had texted me earlier with cryptic instructions. Wear something upscale. Car will pick you up at 7. This one’s going to be good, trust me.
The winking emoji was so Lucas.
I turned my head and realized I was missing an earring. “No! Dammit. Beauty requires symmetry.”
I looked on my little vanity and then the floor. I was certain I had put it on, which meant it probably fell out. I dropped to my knees and ran my hand across the shag rug.
The door buzzer rang.
I jumped and banged my head on the vanity. The cheap Ikea thing sure felt solid when I bonked my head against it. I didn’t think I had a concussion, so I scrambled to my feet. The driver was early. Of course.
I pressed the intercom button. “Hello, sir? Can you wait just a minute?”
“It’s Dane.”
I stared at the intercom like it had hissed at me like a viper. Dane was here. At my building. Maybe I had hit my head harder than I’d thought.
I could leave him down there and rush out with either one earring or none. Or let him up and finish my search or find another pair.
“One moment please,” I said into the intercom, using my best executive assistant voice.
I looked around my apartment in panic. It wasn’t messy, exactly, but it was well lived in.
One of Abby’s chef’s jacket was draped over the back of the couch.
My laptop was open on the coffee table, surrounded by the remnants of last night’s cheese and crackers.
There were dishes in the sink and a pile of mail on the counter.
Not perfect but there were no bras littered about, despite them coming off the moment I shut the apartment door behind me. One of the best parts of my day. Amen and bra-llelujah.
The buzzer rang again. Right. Dane was standing outside in the February cold.
“Come on up!” I said, pressing the button to unlock the door. “Fifth floor. Sorry, the elevator is broken! But you look like you’re in good shape.”
My boss was about to see where I lived. I renewed my frantic search for the missing earring and managed to find it just as there was a knock on the door. Success!
The slippery earring went back in my ear and I opened the door to let my boss in. His wide frame filled the doorway like a vision. No man had any right to look as good as he did in a suit. The burning question was if he looked as good out of the suit.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“So ready,” I said, somewhat breathlessly. “I mean, yeah, I’m good to go.”
“Why do you live in a walkup?” he asked, glancing around the apartment.
“Why?” I repeated back at him. “Because I love having roaches for roommates. Why do you think I live here? It’s what I can afford, Mr. Moneybags.”
“Right, of course,” he said, shaking his head. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I guess sometimes I forget how far I’ve gotten from growing up in a place pretty similar to this.”
I groaned. “I know you’re trying to be nice, but it’s not actually a compliment to compare my current home to the poverty you escaped. For the record, I pay a lot of money to live in the setting of your tragic origin story.”
“No, I mean, your apartment is obviously a lot nicer than where I grew up.” Dane cracked a wry smile. “I want to keep clarifying but I’m worried I’ll accidentally insult you again.”
“No, by all means, keep backpedaling. It’s refreshing to see you out of your element.”
He shook his head at me but there was an amused look in his eyes. “Ready to go?”
“Yes. Let me just grab my coat.”
I pulled my wool coat from the closet and wrapped a scarf around my neck, hyper-aware of Dane watching me. No matter what he thought of my apartment, he looked at me like a treasure, and it sent warm shivers through me.
When I turned around, he was holding my purse, which I’d left on the small table by the door.
“Now that’s more like,” I said, taking it from him. “Thank you.”
When we stepped outside, I expected to see the black sedan waiting. Instead, there was a sleek silver car. I didn’t know enough about cars to identify the exotic logo on the front, but it was clearly a luxury model. Possibly from the future.
He opened the passenger door for me. I slid in, immediately surrounded by the smell of leather and whatever expensive cologne he wore.
He got in and we headed into the night. I liked that he hadn’t sent a driver. This way it was just the two of us. Alone. It felt strange but comfortable. I wasn’t nervous. Not really.
“So where are we going?” I asked.
“You’ll see.”
“Oh, come on. Give me a hint.”
Dane shook his head firmly. “The surprise is half the fun.”
I groaned and squirmed in my seat. “I love surprises but I hate not knowing things. It’s a curse.”
“Like a Greek tragedy.”
Dane Kavanagh joking with me about ancient plays? It made the theater kid in me get up and do jazz hands. He jazzed up other parts of me too, but I was too much of a lady to indulge in those thoughts right then. Later tonight when I was home alone in bed? That might be a different story.
Dane pulled to a stop on a street I recognized. We were in the Meatpacking District with all the trendy restaurants and art galleries. He came around to open my door and I stepped out. The valet took his car and I looked up at the illuminated sign for Candelabra.
Of all the Italian ristorantes in all the world, Dane had to bring me to this one.
Mama mia.
I had about three seconds to decide whether to fake a heart attack on the sidewalk or go inside and face my roommate, who would absolutely never let me live this down.
My heart was beating fast but was otherwise fine. And I was pretty hungry. I took his arm.
“This place just got a Michelin star,” Dane said. “It’s supposed to be great.”
The inside was beautiful, with rough stucco walls mimicking an old Tuscan villa.
Flickering candles on the tables made the well-polished wood gleam.
It was busy but open enough that it didn’t feel packed.
Abby had described it as controlled chaos during her excited rants about finally working at one of the hottest places in the area, but it seemed like a well-oiled machine.
We were seated at a table with a perfect view of the kitchen.
Of course we were.
I scanned the line of chefs, and there she was. Abby was in her chef’s whites, her hair pulled back, completely focused on plating something that looked like it belonged in an art museum.
She looked up, saw me, and her eyes went wide.
I put one finger to my lips in a “be quiet” gesture and tilted my head slightly toward Dane.
Abby’s gaze slid to my dinner companion. Recognition dawned on her face. Her mouth fell open and I shook my head frantically, begging her to be cool about this. She grinned like the Cheshire cat and went back to her plating.
I was doomed.
“Everything okay?” Dane asked, studying his menu.
“Perfect. Everything’s perfect. Just admiring the kitchen.”
Dinner was extraordinary. Freshly made pasta was a giant step up from the microwaved spaghetti-o’s I sometimes made when I was feeling extra lazy.
We started with crusty bread drizzled with olive oil and herbs, and if that was the only thing Candelabra served, I would walk out of there a happy woman.
Why the hell wasn’t Abby bringing loaves home with her? She and I were going to have a long talk about being a better friend.
Next came the calamari, which tasted a lot fresher than the squid we got in Wyoming. Some lightly fried ravioli. Then I had chicken marsala and he got a dish that looked like spaghetti but was called something I couldn’t pronounce.
All of it was a symphony. Dane was warmer than he’d been before.
But maybe it was just because we were in public.
If it was all an act, I didn’t care. The food was great and I was having fun talking to him.
I confirmed that he had never seen Breaking Bad.
He asked me if it was a movie, and he looked adorably clueless, wide eyes sparkling in the candlelight.
“Good evening,” Abby said, approaching our table with a covered dish. “The chef wanted to send out a special dessert for you to try. It’s extra decadent.”
Her voice was professional, giving no indication that we were roommates.
“This is our sous-chef, Abby Canton,” our server said. “She’ll explain the dish.”
Abby set down the plate and revealed the triple-layer tiramisu.
She explained the special touches, like coffee dust from Sumatran beans, but the whole time she was talking, her eyes kept flicking to me.
I could see she was having a ball, watching me squirm.
I had a feeling she was making up half these ingredients.
Tonka beans couldn’t be real. Wasn’t that a toy truck?