“Then I’m going to ask to meet him over a drink and plan the work stuff.”
“Do it,” says Kate.
“Good idea,” agrees Ginny.
“Eyes on the prize,” Kate says, nodding. “If he makes you feel guilty or pressures you about the restaurant, you can walk away. You have zero obligation to spend any more time with him than is absolutely necessary.”
“I don’t know what I’d do without you girls,” I say wistfully. “Okay. Done. I’m going to go get into holiday mode and have a drink.”
“First things first, though. What are you going to wear?” asks Ginny.
I sniff the armpit of my denim jumpsuit. “This?”
“No,” comes the firm response in stereo.
“Well, I’ve got time to nip out and get some basics, I think.”
“Good. Shop. A little shower and then out you go,” Ginny says. “Tell your plan to Leo, and then at least you can pass out in bed half-drunk and day one will be done.”
“I reluctantly concur,” says Kate.
I AM TWOdrinks in and sitting at a bar underneath a canopy of twisted vines and fairy lights a few hours later when Leo finally shows up. I spot him in the reflection of the bar mirror. He’s impossible to miss: tall, dark-haired, well put together, with a confident swagger. He’s kept me waiting, which I suppose is a little payback, but the result is I’m on to my second glass of wine and already feeling a little floaty.
“Hi, Leo,” I say nervously, holding up a clammy hand to shake his, as he slides up next to me at the bar, placing a small notebook, phone, and his room key down. He takes my hand and gives it a cursory shake. I get wafts of woody tones and citrus from his cologne, and something else? Scotch, I think.Curious. He had a straightener before he met me. Maybe he’s not so confident after all.
“Hello again,” he says, glancing at the flimsy neckline of my hastily purchased, thin-as-cheesecloth red cotton beach dress, which looked just fine in the store but now, next to Leo, feels cheap. “Finally.”
I didn’t get around to messaging him until 6:20 p.m. Or maybe it’s fairer to sayI put off messaging him.I glance at him as he pushes back his dark hair, still damp from the shower. His dark brown eyes are serious, and he narrows them on me curiously.
“Yeah, sorry. I had to go out and pick up some things,” I say wearily. “The airline lost my bag.”
Leo nods, and his eyes flicker back to my neckline. “Annoying,” he sympathizes. “Where did you go?”
“Valentino,” I say flippantly, wrapping my thumbs around the spaghetti straps on the dress. I’m tipsy, and even if it’s patently obvious, I will not sit next to an Italian, even one raised in London, and admit I paid nine ninety-nine at a back-street store called Coochi Beach Wear.
“If that’s Valentino, then I’m head-to-toe Armani,” he says with a wry smile.
I take in Leo’s look and casual stance—foot on the gilded footrest beneath the bar, leaning in, the lights giving his face a warm, healthy glow. He’s in tan chinos with brown leather loafers and no socks, and a loose-fit black linen shirt rolled up at the sleeves. Hecouldbe in fucking Armani.
“Oh. I didn’t know Primark did an Armani line,” I say cheekily, raising an eyebrow.
Leo half chuckles. He manages to do this without fully smiling, which is remarkable, frankly. Still, I relax a little. Maybe this will be okay. Maybe this is just what we need. Two colleagues having a drink on a work trip.
“Grazie,” Leo says to the bartender, who has appeared with a beer. “Well, thanks for meeting me. I have ideas we can go through.”
“What? No small talk?”
“We can do that after,” he says with a cheeky lift of a brow. “You’re kinda hard to pin down, Olive.”
I glance at Leo, feeling instantly prickly, but decide not to bite. Iwashard to pin down. “You should probably sit,” I say, waving a hand at the stool next to me.
“How can I refuse such a warm invitation?”
“If you could see the sweat dripping down my back to my butt, you’d know I’m about as warm as I get right now,” I moan. It issohot, and it’s nearly 8 p.m.
I see a slight narrowing of his gaze on me before he pulls his eyes away and looks down to his drink. He lifts it and taps it once on the bar before taking a large sip.
“Yeah. Well. It’s about to get hotter,” he says, clearing his throat, eyes on his drink as he slides onto the stool next to me.
