“No.” She thought of the message she’d gotten about the meeting. “I just had a message that someone was coming to talk to me about the project. No specifics.”
His eyes darkened with intensity. He ignored the valet attendant who came to his door. “How did you recognize me?”
With a frown, she asked, “What? What do you mean?”
“When you saw me, you said, ‘Ken.’ You didn’t pause and wait for me to identify myself.”
Suddenly nervous, she licked her lips. “I’ve always been able to recognize you. You don’t remember that?”
He searched her face as if examining her, then finally relaxed and smiled. “I do now. I’m surprised you still could after all these years.” He opened his door and got out of the truck, handing the key fob to the attendant. Seconds later, he opened her door and held a hand out. His hand felt warm, the skin rough. “You know no one else can, right?”
Surprised, she asked, “Why?”
“Because, Daisy, we’re identical, my brothers and me. Only my parents and Brad’s wife can pick one from the other. Even Valerie stumbles over Jon and me.”
She shook her head. “I can tell Brad from Jon, but it takes one of them speaking. You, I could always pick you out.”
They walked into the hotel. Daisy looked all around, taking in the green marble floors, the elegant furniture, the giant vase of flowers in the middle of the lobby. Ken led the way to the bank of elevators and hit the call button for the top floor. “Best steak in Georgia,” he announced.
When the doors opened, they walked into the waiting area of the restaurant. The maître de greeted them with a smile. “Welcome to the Viscolli Grand. May I get the name on the reservation?”
“Dixon,” Ken said.
“Absolutely, Mr. Dixon. We are delighted you are here with us. Mrs. Westcott has instructed us to spoil you.”
Impressed, Daisy followed him to the table next to the window. The dim lighting and hushed tones, leather chairs, and candlelight all accentuated the establishment’s elegant feel. They looked out at the skyline of Atlanta. “Thank you,” she said as he handed her a menu.
“Will you be interested in our wine menu this evening?”
Ken glanced at her, and subtly, silently shook his head. Relieved, Daisy also shook her head. Ken said, “No, thank you.”
“No problem. Your server, Phil, will be with you momentarily.”
Daisy skimmed the entrees. She didn’t even know where to begin ordering. “So? Who’s Mrs. Westcott?”
Ken didn’t look up from his menu. “Madeline Viscolli Westcott. This is one of her hotels.”
“You know the owner?” She set aside the menu and sat back in the comfortable chair. “And why is she spoiling you?”
He shrugged. “I think it’s a standing order for our family. We built this place. Anyway, she and Brad became friends. I doubt anyone called her and told her I had a reservation or anything.” He turned his attention to the arriving waiter.
“Good evening. I have a list of recommendations from the chef, Mr. Dixon. He’d like permission to serve you, personally.”
Ken glanced her way. “That okay with you?”
She chuckled. “I was going to ask you to recommend something because the menu is so extravagant I don’t even know where to begin.”
Ken looked at Phil. “I want a steak. Medium rare. For everything else, please tell the chef to feel free to express himself.”
“Absolutely. May I ask how you like your steak?”
They discussed specifics on the menu, Ken ordered them both water to drink, and then when the waiter left, he sat back in his chair. “I’ve been trying to put you in the place of the Daisy I remember, but it’s just not working. I remember you in a pink hoodie, with glasses and braces.”
“Oh, goodness,” she exclaimed, putting her hands on her cheeks. “You had to go back to my awkward fourteen-year-old phase?”
“That’s where my mind stops. I mean, we were in your home weekly for years. But even last year when we were in Florida, Diego was talking about you and in my mind’s eye… pink hoodie.”
Why should she feel embarrassed about tween Daisy? But she did. “If you’d come to my Quinceañera, you’d have seen the whole blossoming into womanhood ceremony.”
