Chapter 9 #2
Sam checked her watch. “Mr. Everett is expecting you. He mentioned something about driving you to lunch himself.”
My stomach did that annoying flutter thing again, like a romance novel heroine’s heart getting its own dance sequence. Jason. Driving. Just the two of us in an enclosed space. This was fine. Totally fine.
“Mrs. Everett?” Sam prompted when I didn’t respond.
“Yes! Sorry. Just… contemplating the complex dynamics of lunch meetings. Do you think they invented business lunches just to make eating awkward? Because honestly, watching people try to look professional while wrestling with pasta is?—”
As my shopping companions dispersed to their various departments—each looking like they’d just won a fashion lottery—I caught my reflection in the elevator doors.
The woman staring back looked nothing like the Victoria Everett who’d stormed the board meeting this morning.
She looked… real. Approachable. Maybe even a little dangerous.
Which was exactly the problem.
Because Jason wasn’t supposed to be looking at Victoria like he had this morning. He wasn’t supposed to be intrigued by her transformation. He was supposed to be falling for Sophia, who would soon be back at her desk, turning heads in her new outfit.
I pressed the elevator button, my inner monologue running wild. This was fine. Just lunch. With the hero of the story. Who was supposed to hate his wife. Who was definitely not supposed to be making my pulse race every time our eyes met.
The elevator doors opened, and I swear the temperature rose several degrees. Or maybe that was just the effect of Jason Everett leaning against his office doorway, sleeves rolled up—seriously, there should be a law against that—watching me with dark eyes that made my knees consider a career change.
“Victoria,” he said, his voice doing unfair things to my pulse rate. “You look…”
Different? Weird? Like someone who’d accidentally body-snatched his wife and was failing spectacularly at maintaining her ice queen image?
“…stunning.”
Oh. That wasn’t in the script at all.
He pushed off the doorway and approached, his movements reminding me of a predator who’d spotted something intriguing. The office around us had gone suspiciously quiet, like everyone was holding their breath.
“Shall we?” He offered his arm like we were heading to a ball instead of lunch. The gesture was so perfectly gentlemanly that my romance-novel-loving heart did a little swoon.
I took his arm, trying to ignore how solid and warm he felt, and how the simple contact sent tingles up my spine. As we walked toward the elevator, I caught whispers and beaming faces from the staff. One woman actually sighed dreamily.
“I’ve never seen him smile like that,” I heard someone whisper.
“They look so good together,” another added.
No, no, no. This wasn’t right. He wasn’t supposed to be smiling at Victoria. He wasn’t supposed to be looking at her—at me—like that. This was all wrong.
The elevator ride was torture of the best/worst kind. The space suddenly seemed very small, and Jason’s cologne was doing dangerous things to my ability to think straight.
“Nice car,” I blurted as we approached a sleek black Aston Martin in the private parking garage, desperate to break the charged silence.
Then I remembered—in the book, Victoria had sneered at this car, calling it Jason’s sad attempt to be James Bond and demanding they only use the chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce.
Jason’s step faltered slightly. “You hate this car,” he said, watching me carefully.
“I was wrong,” I said quickly. “It’s gorgeous. Classic but modern, powerful but elegant.” Like its owner, my traitor brain added.
Something flickered in his eyes—surprise? interest?—before he opened my door with a flourish.
The drive was… distracting. The intimate space of the car made me hyperaware of Jason’s presence. I discovered that Victoria’s body apparently had muscle memory of exactly how much these seats cost, because I kept having to stop myself from apologizing to the leather upholstery.
The restaurant was exactly what you’d expect for a billionaire’s lunch date—all soaring ceilings, crystal chandeliers, and waitstaff who probably had better posture than most military generals.
As Jason guided me through the dining room, his hand resting lightly on my lower back—which was NOT helping my ability to walk straight—I noticed phones discreetly rising to capture our progress.
“Oh my God, is that Victoria Everett?”
“That outfit is amazing!”
“Who’s the designer?”
“They look so in love…”
The last whisper made me stumble slightly. Jason’s hand steadied me, and I tried very hard not to think about how natural it felt.
A maitre d’ appeared, practically vibrating with excitement at seating Manhattan’s power couple. “Mr. and Mrs. Everett, your usual table is ready.”
Usual table? But Victoria never… oh right.
This was where Jason took his business meetings.
Where he was supposed to start falling for Sophia over expense reports and coffee.
Not having lunch with his supposedly villainous wife while his eyes lingered on my new outfit with unmistakable appreciation.
“You’re different today,” Jason said once we were seated, his dark eyes studying me with an intensity that made me want to check if I was actually blushing. “The board meeting, the shopping spree for the staff, this outfit…”
“Different bad?” I asked, fiddling with my napkin.
“Different intriguing.”
Oh boy. I hid behind the leather-bound menu, trying to remember if Victoria had any food preferences besides “whatever has the least calories.” The prices weren’t listed, which was probably for the best—my waitress soul might have gone into cardiac arrest.
“The chef’s added a new pasta dish,” Jason commented, his voice doing that unfairly attractive thing where it got all low and smooth. “Though you usually avoid carbs like they’re personally offending you.”
I lowered my menu just enough to peek at him. “Maybe I’m tired of avoiding things I want.”
His eyes darkened, and I suddenly realized how that sounded. Great job, Zoe. Why not just climb across the table and—no, bad brain. Very bad brain.
“And what do you want?” The way he asked it made it clear we weren’t talking about pasta anymore.
I was saved by the waiter, who appeared with the silent grace of a ninja butler. “May I suggest today’s special? A handmade tagliatelle with fresh truffles and wild mushrooms.”
“Perfect,” I said, maybe a bit too enthusiastically. “And please, hold nothing back on the parmesan.”
Jason’s eyebrows shot up. Victoria apparently had strong feelings about cheese too.
“And for you, sir?”
“The same,” Jason said, not taking his eyes off me. “And a bottle of the ‘82 Bordeaux.”
“Excellent choice, sir.”
Once the waiter ghosted away, Jason leaned forward slightly. “No lecture about calories? No demand for a green salad, dressing on the side?”
“Life’s too short for sad lettuce,” I declared, then wondered if that was too un-Victoria-like. But Jason’s lips curved into a smile that made my heart do more flips than a circus performer.
“You know,” he said, swirling his water glass thoughtfully, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you actually enjoy food before.”
When the pasta arrived, I nearly embarrassed Victoria’s sophisticated image by drooling. The aroma alone was worth whatever astronomical price they were charging. The first bite was… well, if food could make you see God, this pasta was definitely spiritual.
I might have moaned. Just a little.
Jason’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth, his eyes fixed on me with an intensity that made me feel like I was the main course.
“Good?” he asked, his voice rougher than before.
“If this pasta asked me to marry it, I’d say yes,” I declared, twirling another perfect forkful. “Sorry, but you’d have to understand.”
He laughed—a real, deep laugh that made heads turn at nearby tables. “Should I be jealous of pasta now?”
“Depends. Can you be handmade with fresh truffles?”
“I have other qualities,” he said, and holy smokes, was Jason Everett actually flirting with his wife?
“Do tell,” I challenged, feeling reckless. This was bad. This was very bad. He was supposed to be falling for Sophia, not looking at me like he wanted to… to…
“You’re blushing,” he observed, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“It’s the wine,” I lied, even though I’d barely touched my glass.
“Is it?” He reached across the table and—oh God—brushed his thumb across my bottom lip. “You had a bit of sauce…”
I’m pretty sure my brain short-circuited. In the book, this was exactly the kind of moment he was supposed to have with Sophia. Not with Victoria. Not with me. Not…
“Tell me what’s different,” he said softly, his hand lingering near mine on the table. “This morning in the boardroom, just now with the car, this…” He gestured between us. “It’s like you’re…”
“A completely different person?” I suggested weakly.
“More like the person you’ve been hiding.”
“I’m not hiding anything,” I said, which was probably the biggest lie I’d ever told. “Maybe I’m just… tired of being what everyone expects.”
His dark eyes studied me over his wineglass. “And what does everyone expect?”
“Ice queen. Social climber. Perfectly coiffed trophy wife who cares more about her designer labels than…” I stopped, realizing I was channeling my inner book-reader a bit too much.
“Than?” he prompted, looking genuinely interested. When was the last time anyone had actually listened to Victoria?
“Than actually living,” I finished softly. “Than feeling things. Than… pasta.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Pasta as a metaphor for life? Do tell.”
“Well, look at it.” I gestured at my plate with my fork. “It’s messy and complicated and probably going to leave stains on this outfit, but… it’s worth it. Sometimes the best things are the ones that make a mess.”
Something flickered in his eyes. “You sound like a completely different person.”
“Maybe I am,” I said before I could stop myself. “Would that be so bad?”