Thirty-two
Chiara
My phone lights up against the edge of my desk, Ciro’s name cutting across the screen while Heather’s voice carries from the glass conference room behind me. I turn my chair away from the window and answer before it rings again.
“How about dinner out tonight?”
I glance toward the glass, watching Heather tap a pen against the table while she talks. “I guess. In public, given everything going on?”
“If we arrive separately and you’re in your disguise I think we’ll be fine.”
I press my thumb into the edge of my notebook, holding it in place. “I thought we were keeping a low profile.”
“McCormick & Kuleto’s,” he says, ignoring the comment. “Seven.”
I let that sit for a beat, watching Heather look straight through the glass like she’s checking who’s at their desks. “Anything I should prepare for?”
“Prepare?” He laughs. “It’s not a business meeting. If you don’t want to wear panties, maybe that might be fun.”
I roll my eyes. “I’ll see you there.”
The line clicks before I can add anything else, the silence in my ear sharp as I lower the phone to the desk.
Dinner. Tonight. In a very popular and public restaurant.
The rest of the day goes as normal, and I make progress on my project. Katie picks me up after work and takes me back to the house so I can drop my things and touch up my makeup. I debate taking my panties off, but maybe tonight, that’s not the best idea.
McCormick and Kuleto’s is just down the hill from Ciro’s house and the views of the Golden Gate and Alcatraz are spectacular.
I step into the restaurant and pause just inside the doorway as the host looks up from his stand.
“Do you have a reservation?” he asks, straightening the menus in his hands as he takes me in.
“I’m meeting someone,” I say, shifting my weight so I can see past him into the dining room.
“Name?” he asks, pen hovering over the book.
“Marino,” I say, keeping my voice even as I scan the room—windows to the right, bar to the left, servers moving a steady loop between.
He nods, turning the page. “Right this way,” he says, stepping out from behind the stand and gesturing toward the dining room.
I follow a half step behind, my gaze moving ahead of us—tables spaced close enough for noise, not close enough for privacy, the back wall lined with booths that block the room from one side.
“Busy tonight,” I say, letting my eyes track a server crossing in front of us with a tray.
“Steady,” he says, leading me deeper into the room.
He stops at a high-back booth and sets the menus down against the table. “This work?” he asks, stepping aside so I can slide in.
I rest my hand on the top of the booth before sitting, testing the height of the back as I angle myself into the seat. “Perfect. Thank you,” I say, placing my bag beside me instead of on the floor.
He gives a polite nod. “Your server will be right with you.”
I wait until he clears the table behind me before shifting, turning just enough to check the aisle and the line of sight from the bar. Contained. Not hidden.
I reach for the water glass and take a sip, setting it back down as a shadow falls across the table.
“Perfect spot,” Ciro says, sliding into the seat opposite me, and we both move into the middle sitting together.
I let out a small breath I didn’t realize I was holding and curl my fingers around my glass. “I wasn’t sure if I liked it or not,” I say, angling slightly toward him. “High back helps.”
“It does,” he says, glancing once past me and then back, easy and unhurried. “Lots of ways we can have fun.” He bounces his eyebrows.
“You’re in a funky mood,” I say, dragging my thumb along the condensation on the glass.
“We spend all our time at the house, and I thought this might be fun,” he says, leaning back, his gaze settling on me.
I touch the wig lightly, and then drop my hand. “Don’t go there,” I say, tipping my head.
“I would never do anything to embarrass you,” he says, a hint of a smile pulling at his mouth.
Heat flickers under my skin, and I take a sip of water to cover it. “You’re very confident tonight,” I say, setting the glass down carefully.
“I’m consistent,” he says, resting his forearm along the table.
I study him for a second and then relax a fraction, my shoulders easing against the booth. “You’re very calm about this,” I say.
“Katie and Victor are here plus a few other members of Jim’s team are around if we need them,” he says, sliding the menu toward me. “But I don’t think we will.”
I pick up the menu again. There are dozens of options but I stop at the seafood stew.
“What looks good?”
“I was looking at the seafood stew.”
“How about a raw oyster starter?” he asks with a grin, his playful side sneaking through.
“Sure.” I shake my head. We need to get out of the head space we’ve been in and this is perfect.
The server arrives, and we order. I order my seafood stew and he goes for a dozen oysters on the half-shell along with the steak and lobster.
“That many?” I ask and the server grins.
He shrugs. “I like them too. And please add a bottle of the Matthiasson Sauvignon Blanc.”
The server leaves and he turns to me. “How did your day go?”
“Did you know my father sent out the original prenup?” I say, leaning forward so my voice stays low under the room noise.
He doesn’t move. “What did Marci say?”
I press my palm flat against the tablecloth, anchoring myself. “My father filed to have me declared incompetent.”
His jaw tightens a fraction as he reaches for his water. “On what grounds?”
“Does it matter?” I tilt my head as I watch him. “He’s not trying to win. He’s trying to stall.”
He nods once, slow. “When is the hearing?”
“He’s trying to get me back to Chicago.” I lean back just enough to breathe. “She’s going to file to move it here.”
His eyes flick past me, and then back. “San Francisco.”
“Yes,” I tap the table once. “That should slow things down.”
“So, what you’re telling me is that all hell is going to break out.”
The server arrives with our oysters. And the bottle of wine. She presents it to Ciro, and he tastes it. “That’s excellent.”
The server smiles and pours me a glass first and then him. I take a saltine and put the meaty Kusshi oyster on the cracker with a generous dollop of cocktail sauce and I pop it in my mouth.
He smiles at me and tips it straight back and grins at me.
“Show off.”
He laughs loudly.
I lean forward across the table, my forearms pressing into the linen as I drop my voice under the noise around us.
“If there’s something I need to know, tell me now.” I hold his gaze.
He doesn’t move, his hand resting flat beside his glass as he watches me. “Sounds like Marci is handling Chicago.”
I nod and take a sip of my wine.
“There’s something—” he starts, his gaze fixed on mine.
I don’t move, pressing my palm harder into the linen.
His mouth closes, the word cut off, and he shifts back an inch, breaking the line between us.
“When do you meet Marci next?” he asks.
“Tomorrow. I’m going to need some cover with Heather.”
“I can do that.”
“Can you convince her that I’m not out to take her job?”
He grins. “If she’s worried about someone taking her job, then she should be worried. I’m still concerned about her taking your work and presenting it as her own.”
Our server steps in beside the table, her tray balanced against her shoulder as she lowers plates between us.
“You were saying something,” I say, picking up my fork and resting it lightly against the edge of the plate.
He glances at the food and then back at me. “Eat”
I drag the spoon once through the stew without lifting it. “Continue with what you wanted to tell me.”
The server checks in, and then moves on.
His brow furrows. “I don’t remember what I was going to say. It must not have been that important.”
He watches me over the rim of his glass.
“Tell me about the GEM show,” I say, turning the conversation instead of forcing it.
“We’re getting ready for it,” he says, settling back. “I want you there.”
“Will there be other employees?” I reach for my glass of wine. “That complicates things.”
“By then it probably won’t matter.”
“Maybe,” I say, letting that sit instead of agreeing. “Unless you want something to change.”
He studies me. “I just asked you to join me for a trade show. I do want something to change. I want to show you off to everyone I know. You’re beautiful, smart, and I want the world to know you belong to me.”
I sit back and something inside me turns to complete mush. Never have I ever had anyone make a declaration even close to that.
“You think you’ll still want me around by then?” I ask, letting a hint of tease slip in as I lean forward again.
“Without a doubt,” he says, pushing his plate away.
“Are you finished?” He nods toward my half-eaten stew.
“Yes. Do we go home together?” I ask, folding my napkin with deliberate care.
“Separate,” he says. “We’ll meet there.”
I hold his gaze for a second and then look away first. “Sounds good.”
He leans closer, his voice dropping near my ear. “Maybe you’ll follow instructions this time.”
I let out a quiet breath, not quite a laugh, and shift back before he can hold the space. “You don’t give instructions,” I say, lifting my bag onto my shoulder. “You make suggestions.”
“I’ve never heard you complain,” he says.
“I’m not complaining,” I say, steady, meeting his eyes. “I just decide what I do with them.”
I hold that for a beat and then step back from the table, breaking the moment first.
“See you at home,” I say, turning before he answers.