I look her square in the eye and say, “That was disgusting. That’s not even pizza.”
Whitney tosses her head back and laughs, her wavy curls bouncing around her shoulders as she does so. My chest constricts at how beautiful she looks right now, so carefree and happy. She seems completely unfazed by the deep-dish pizza, taking bite after bite.
“So, about this gala,” Whitney begins, trailing off hersentence.
I wipe my mouth with a napkin and swallow thickly. Fuck, this pizza is going to rip up my stomach. This was a terrible idea. I’ve made it about halfway through my serving and regret it immensely. “Yes. You’ve already seen the gist of it from the itinerary I gave you, but I just wanted to run through everything.”
She bobs her head and pulls a notebook out of her bag. Of course, she came prepared. I fight off the smirk that wants to pull on my lips.
“So, we’ll leave early Friday morning, and the actual event is Friday night. Then Saturday we can take as long as we need to. I believe there will be a luncheon if you want to attend. I’ll have my jet on standby so we can leave whenever necessary.”
“And I’m assuming this is a black-tie event?” she asks as she scribbles something in her notebook. She’s writing in some kind of cursive that I can’t make out from my position across the table. I am curious as to what she’s jotting down.
“Yes, I’ll be in a tux,” I tell her, winking when she looks up at me.
She smiles and then writes something in her book again. “I’ll have to find something to wear. I don’t think my prom dresses from high school will fit me anymore.”
“I can have—” I stop mid-sentence when she holds her hand up, halting my train of thought.
“Do not offer to buy it or have one bought for me,” she says. She’s still smiling softly, but now I can see the resolve in her eyes. She means what she says. “This is not going to be one of those relationships where the measly, middle-class girl dates the big bad CEO and lets him buy everything for her.”
I lean my elbows on the table. “They make relationships like that?”
Finally, the gleam is back in her eye. “Oh, yes.”
I laugh. “Noted.”
“You said your mother hosts it?” she asks. I nod my head, and her expression morphs into something thoughtful. “So, your mother will be there?”
“She will. We’ll likely be seated at her table.”
“Does she, um—” Whitney hesitates, unsure how to ask her question. “Does she have any indication that I’mmoreto you than just an assistant?”
I tilt my head and observe her, trying to figure out why she’s asking me this.
She quickly says, “You know, just for my sake. I need to know how I’m supposed to act. If it’s going to be as your assistant or your date.” She whispers the last word and looks up through her eyelashes. I catch a sliver of hope in her blue-gray eyes and blink a few times, wondering if I just imagined it.
“You’ll be coming as my date,” I confirm. Now that we’re out of the office, I can drop all pretenses. If Whitney is going to be by my side, on my arm, in some knockout dress, she is damn well going be referred to as my date.
“So I shouldn’t bring my notebooks and color-coding system?” she asks, teasing me again, though now I notice her shoulders relaxing into her seat.
“Not unless you really want to. I won’t stop you,” I say fondly. “There won’t be much to work on, though. It’s really just for leisure, more than business.”
She bobs her head. “Good to know. I don’t think I’ll have much to protest about then.”
“I hope not,” I say playfully.
We finish our meal on a light-hearted note. There never seemed to be a lull in conversation between us and each topic flowed seamlessly onto the next. As I hand the waitress our paid check, I can’t help but feel content. I don’t think I’ll ever grow tired of getting to spend one-on-one time with this beautiful woman in front of me.
Now that she’s agreed to come with me to the gala, I’m sure it’s all I’ll be able to think about for the next few weeks.
As we’re on our way out, something catches my eye. I grab Whitney’s hand before she can get too far ahead of me and hold her back. She whips around and gives me a questioning look. I tilt my head toward the wall with names and quotes scattered all over it.
“You got a permanent marker?” I ask.
She stares at me blankly before sighing. “Of course, I do.”
After digging around in her purse, she produces a black permanent marker. I frown at it. “That’s not going to work. The walls are black.”
