Elena
By six twenty, the Chicago Cryo Clinic binder is locked in the bottom drawer of my desk, my laptop is packed, and I have spent the last forty minutes pretending I’m not about to have dinner with a man who now knows I’m shopping for sperm.
The past forty minutes have been a master class in pretending to be a normal person.
Maya appears in my doorway with her purse over her shoulder and looks around my office.
“What are you looking for?”
“Evidence that you’re planning to escape through a window.”
“We’re on the thirty-eighth floor.”
“Which is the only reason I’m not checking behind the curtains.”
I slide a folder into my bag. “It’s dinner. We do this every year.”
“Right. Your very professional birthday dinner with your very professional billionaire boss.”
“It’s also my work anniversary.”
“That makes it sound even more romantic.”
I give her a look. Maya has been my assistant for two years and one of my closest work friends for almost as long, which is why she’s standing here, treating my office like a suggestion box for my love life.
“I still think you should let me find you a date,” she says. “A real one. Someone with no ties to your employer or your brother.”
“I don’t need you to find me anyone.”
“Fine. Find him yourself. Go meet the Mr. Big Dick of your dreams and give me something interesting to discuss over lunch.”
My hand stops on the zipper of my bag.
The name is different. Close enough, though.
A bridesmaid’s phone at Cliff’s wedding. A woman under Dominic, moaning his name while he drove into her. The few seconds I watched after I understood exactly what was happening. Then the laughter when someone called him Big D ...and a gleeful explanation for the nickname.
Maya leans forward. “Oh my God.”
“What?”
“You’re blushing.”
“I’m warm.”
“Your office is sixty-eight degrees.”
“Then you should probably go home before hypothermia sets in.”
She narrows her eyes. “Why did that joke make you blush?”
“It didn’t.”
“You know someone with a big dick.”
“I’m going to fire you.”
She follows me toward the door, delighted now. “Is it someone from college? Wait, is it Marcus?”
“Good night, Maya.”
She nearly collides with Dominic as he steps around the corner. He catches her by the elbow.
“Careful.”
“Sorry, Mr. Rowe.” She glances back at me with an expression that promises this conversation isn’t over. “Have a wonderful dinner.”
I will make her regret this tomorrow.
Dominic watches her leave, then looks at me. He has slipped his suit jacket back on, though his tie is still loosened from the day. His eyes settle on my face long enough to make me wonder how much he heard.
“Ready?”
“Yes.”
I say it too quickly. His focus stays on me for another second, but he lets it go.
“I had Smyth put together a custom tasting menu.”
My embarrassment gives way to surprise. “Smyth?”
“You said you wanted to try it.”
“When?”
“During the board meeting in March. Harrison was complaining about the chef’s use of fermented flavors, and you said his palate couldn’t be trusted because he thinks black pepper is aggressive.”
“That sounds like me.”
“It was.”
“You remembered one comment from a meeting six weeks ago and managed to get a reservation?”
“I already had the reservation.”
I stare at him. “How long have you been planning this?”
“Long enough.”
“You know this is excessive.”
“I know you’ve wanted to go.”
“That doesn’t make it less excessive.”
“I also requested a private table.”
“Why?”
“You hate public birthday attention. This avoids a candle, a song, or strangers watching you pretend to enjoy either one.”
That answer lands somewhere deeper than the expensive reservation. He arranged the privacy because he knows I would rather leave without dessert than sit through an entire dining room singing to me.
“You really planned all of this.”
“You only turn thirty once.”
“Thank God.”
His mouth curves. “Come on.”
Dominic steps behind my chair as I stand, his fingers brushing the silk between my shoulder blades as he moves it out of my way.
It’s barely a touch. He’s probably done it a dozen times before, and I’ve never noticed.
Tonight I notice, and my mind goes straight back to the video. His hands gripping a woman’s hips. That rough sound he made when she said his name.
A familiar warmth prickles up my neck. I walk toward the door before Maya can return and find something else to investigate.
Dominic drives us himself. A cold bottle of my preferred sparkling water is waiting in the cup holder when I get in.
I hold it up as he pulls into traffic. “Did you prepare a full dossier for this evening?”
“You complain about the other brand.”
“I said it tasted like television static.”
“You said it every time the executive dining room stocked it.”
“That seems unlikely.”
“It was four times.”
I twist off the cap. “You counted?”
“You were repetitive.”
“And now you’ve stocked the car with the only water I’m willing to drink.”
“You’re welcome.”
I take a sip and look out at the evening traffic. “A custom menu, a private table, and approved sparkling water. Should I expect a string quartet?”
“No. You’d hate that.”
“I would.”
“I know.”
The answer is simple, a fact gathered over four years of working together.
I know plenty about him too. I know which scotch he orders when he’s celebrating and which one he pours when a deal has gone to hell.
I know he takes off his watch when he intends to stay at the office past midnight.
I know the exact way he runs his thumb along the side of his watch when he’s holding back a question.
He’s doing it now.
The easy rhythm of our conversation slows, and the space between us fills with everything we aren’t saying. The binder may be locked in my office, but neither of us has forgotten it.
“You’re going to rub a mark into that band,” I say.
His thumb stops. “What?”
“Your watch. You do that when you’re deciding whether to challenge someone.”
“You’ve studied me.”
“I’ve survived a lot of meetings with you.”
He changes lanes, quiet again.
“You can ask,” I tell him.
“I haven’t asked permission yet.”
“I’m saving us time.”
“Can I ask you about the binder?”
The directness of the request throws me.
My ex never asked once he believed he had earned access to me. My plans became subjects he could weigh in on, my schedule something to rearrange. Even my career decisions eventually required a version he found acceptable.
Dominic waits, his hands steady on the wheel.
“You can ask,” I say. “I may decide not to answer.”
“I know.”
That helps.
The valet opens my door before Dominic can continue.
Our table is set apart from the main dining room. I can hear muted conversations and low music beyond the partition, but no one is close enough to overhear us. There are no balloons, no candle waiting beside my plate, and absolutely no indication that anyone intends to sing.
Dominic takes the chair across from me. “Acceptable?”
“It depends. Have you threatened the staff?”
“I told them you would leave if anyone publicly acknowledged your birthday.”
“So you did threaten them.”
“I stated the likely consequence.”
The first course arrives, and Dominic waits until the server leaves to return to the subject.
“How many weighted categories are in your donor-selection model?”
I set down my fork. “There is no model.”
“I saw the tabs.”
“Tabs don’t equal a model.”
“You were also making notes.”
“It’s a comparison matrix.”
He considers this. “How is that different?”
“It isn’t based on a numerical score.”
“Are you assigning rankings?”
“Maybe.”
“Then you built a model.”
“I’m comparing relevant information so I can make an informed medical decision.”
“What information?”
“You received permission to ask about the binder. I didn’t agree to present my selection methodology.”
“There’s a spreadsheet, isn’t there?”
“There might be.”
“Elena.”
“It’s one sheet.”
His mouth twitches. “How many columns?”
“That is none of your business.”
The second course rescues me. We talk about the menu and whether thirty deserves celebration. “The Northbridge retention schedule is a mess,” I say between bites. “Their attrition assumption is off by six percent.”
“I know,” he says. “I was waiting for you to find it.” For several minutes, dinner is just two colleagues dissecting a bad model, the familiar rhythm we’ve had since the year he hired me.
Then the plates are cleared.
“Why do you want a stranger?” he asks.
I turn the stem of my glass between my fingers. “Strangers are uncomplicated.”
“Are they?”
“In this situation, yes. The clinic handles screening and the legal agreements. The lines are drawn before anything starts. No one can redraw them later.”
“Simpler than what?”
I look up. His voice is quiet. He isn’t trying to corner me, and some part of me wants him to understand.
I could give him the answer I’ve given the clinic. I’m thirty. I have the financial resources and support system to raise a child. I don’t want to wait for a relationship that may never happen. Every word would be true. None of it would explain why I chose an anonymous donor.
“My ex was older than me,” I say. “He started as my mentor.”
Dominic’s hand pauses near his glass. “At work?”
“Yes. He had more influence and experience, and I thought he believed in me. I was ambitious, but I was also young enough to mistake his attention for proof that I belonged in rooms I’d already earned my way into.”
The server approaches. Dominic changes the subject until she places the next plates and leaves. He wants an answer, but not enough to make me talk in front of a stranger.
“When did he become your partner?” Dominic asks.
“A little later.”
“Professionally?”
“And personally.”
His fingers close around the base of his glass.
“I loved him. I trusted him. Over time, my plans started fitting around his ...because he always had a reason why his way made more sense. He knew the right people. He had more experience. He could open doors, so when he told me an opportunity wasn’t right or that I should wait, I listened.”
“Did he ask you to leave your job?”