She nods, taking another spoonful. "Incredible. Your chef is a genius."
"I'll pass along your compliments," I say, sampling my own dessert though I barely taste it, too focused on watching her enjoyment.
"So," she says between bites, "do you always eat like this? Gourmet meals prepared by a private chef, served in this magnificent dining room with views half the city would kill for?"
"Usually I eat at my desk," I admit. "Martin prepares meals that I reheat or simply delivers them to my office. This—" I gesture to our elegant table setting, the carefully planned meal "—is reserved for special occasions."
"And this qualifies as a special occasion?" she asks, a hint of teasing in her voice.
"Having you here? Absolutely."
The simple honesty seems to catch her off guard. A blush colors her cheeks, the same delicious pink I've come to crave eliciting. "I'm hardly a state dignitary or business mogul."
"Thank God for that," I reply with feeling. "I spend enough time with those types. They rarely appreciate chocolate mousse properly."
She laughs, the sound light and genuine. "I can't imagine the CEO of Chambers Industries closing his eyes in ecstasy over dessert."
The mental image of Victor Chambers—my chief competitor and occasional thorn in my side—having a near-religious experience over chocolate makes me snort in a most undignified manner. "He's more the type to calculate the profit margins on the ingredients while complaining the portion is too small."
Sophie's eyes widen at my unexpected humor, then she bursts into full-throated laughter. "Please tell me you've actually sat through a meal with him doing that!"
I find myself smiling, then chuckling, then joining her in honest laughter—a rare experience that feels rusty but surprisingly good. "Last year's economic summit. He spent ten minutes explaining to the French ambassador why American truffles were superior to French ones, based solely on cost-benefit analysis."
"No!" she gasps between giggles. "What did the ambassador say?"
"He pretended not to speak English for the remainder of the dinner," I tell her, enjoying her delight in the anecdote. "Then sent over a case of French truffles to Chambers' hotel room with a note in perfect English explaining their superior flavor profile and cultural significance."
Sophie's laughter is infectious, her joy in the story pulling more details from me—the ambassador's subtle revenge at the closing ceremonies, Chambers' obliviousness to being diplomatically outmaneuvered. I find myself telling her about other business dinners gone wrong, socialite events where egos and alcohol created memorable disasters, charity functions where the wealthy and powerful embarrassed themselves spectacularly.
Stories I've never bothered to share with anyone. Observations I typically keep to myself, using them strategically rather than for entertainment. Yet here I am, enjoying Sophie's reactions, her quick wit, her ability to see the humor in the pretensions of people who take themselves far too seriously.
Including, perhaps, myself.
By the time we finish dessert, the atmosphere between us has shifted—lighter, warmer, more intimate than physical proximity alone could create. This shared laughter, these exchanged stories, have bridged something between us that my calculated gestures and expensive gifts could not.
"Shall we move to the living room?" I suggest, standing to clear our dessert plates. "I can open a bottle of port, if you'd like."
"That sounds lovely," she agrees, helping me with the dishes despite my protests.
In the living room, the fire has burned down to glowing embers, casting a warm light that complements the city lights visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I pour us each asmall glass of port from my collection, handing Sophie hers as she settles on the sofa.
"Your piano is beautiful," she observes, nodding toward the gleaming black grand piano in the corner. "Do you play?"
"I do," I acknowledge, sitting beside her—close enough to maintain our connection but not so close as to crowd her. "My mother insisted on lessons from an early age. Said it would teach discipline and appreciation for art simultaneously."
"She was right," Sophie says. "Do you still play often?"
The question makes me realize how long it's been. "Not as often as I should. Work consumes most of my time."
"That's a shame," she says, studying me over the rim of her glass. "What pieces do you enjoy playing most?"
"Chopin. Rachmaninoff. Composers who balance technical precision with emotional depth." I surprise myself with the admission—most people expect me to name the most technically difficult pieces, proof of mastery rather than genuine preference.
"Will you play something?" she asks, her expression open and interested. "I'd love to hear you."
Under normal circumstances, I would refuse. Playing the piano is private, one of the few activities I engage in solely for personal satisfaction rather than strategic advantage. But Sophie's genuine interest, the easy connection we've established over dinner, makes me reconsider.
"One piece," I agree, setting down my port and moving to the piano.
