“I don’t think there’ve been any changes since my last email. Has something changed on your end?” His focus made me slightly wary. I couldn’t imagine he’d invite me to lunch to fire me or change the parameters of our working relationship, but it didn’t hurt to check. I took a sip of the wine and hummed my pleasure. Ice-cold with a crisp citrus taste, it would be exceptional with Gulf shrimp.
“Not at all. I’m actually not here to talk about business. Scratch that.” He reached for his own glass, holding the delicate stem between strong fingers. “I almost always talk about business, but that’s not my main reason for coming. I wanted to spend some time in the city. And with you.”
I’d always been partial to a man’s wrist and hands. John’s were as perfect as the rest of him. Strong, with manicured nails done by a barber not a salon, so he appeared effortlessly groomed instead of fussy. It made me think of the time Jake had been doing some kind of test with pens and ended up with his fingertips stained black. I’d teased him about turning into a zombie, and he’d taken it as a challenge to eat me in the very best way.
“You’re smiling.” John took a sip of his wine, watching me over the top of the glass.
“Am I?” I raised my glass in his direction. “It would be a sin to be unhappy with wine and company this good.” I pushed aside thoughts of the man I shouldn’t be thinking about to focus on the one in front of me. I knew he could assume my words meant more, but why shouldn’t they? Beyond the obvious mistake of getting involved with a client, John was an attractive man. Successful, driven, polished, and comfortable in his skin.
There were many steps between a casual lunch and an inappropriate relationship with a client. I could take a few more of the harmless ones.
The server returned in time to save me from having to say anything else. We gave him our orders and he disappeared again, taking some of the potential awkwardness with him.
“You’ve been to France?” I asked, turning the conversation back to his earlier comment.
“Many times. We’ve opened several restaurants over the years. I’ve used it as an excuse to explore the French and Italian vineyards.” He took a sip of his wine, his lips curving in pleasure.
“You’re smiling.” I repeated his words before picking up my own glass.
“So I am,” he said, clasping his hands in front of him, his strong fingers interlaced in a way that had me paying too much attention to his hands. “I know touring vineyards makes me sound pretentious. It’s not that at all. I don’t know much about wine beyond what I like. We’ve thankfully got skilled sommeliers for that. But I love seeing how things are made. How the grapes are grown and pressed, and how the land affects the flavor of the wine. Have you been?”
“Once, as an undergrad. I spent a week in Paris, seeing the obligatory tourist things.” I tipped my wine glass in his direction, acknowledging his earlier sentiment. “And spending days in the museums. Seeing the art I’d studied in person was transformative. So much beauty right there in front of me.” I shook my head remembering the first time I stood in front of a Cézanne. I’d had to fight to keep from running a finger over the brush strokes.
“I can imagine. I don’t know anything about art—again, beyond what I like—but even I was blown away by seeing Monet’sWater Lilliesat the Musée de l’Orangerie. The paintings are so much bigger than I expected. It’s as if you could stepout of the gallery and into the gardens at Giverny,” he said, his pronunciation perfect and unexpected. “Do you have a favorite?”
I thought for a moment, twirling the stem of my wine glass between my thumb and fingers, watching the light through the pale liquid.
“Antonio Canova’sPsyche Revived by Cupid’s Kiss. It’s in one of the sculpture galleries in the Louvre. There’s natural light everywhere, and the day I visited, that wing was practically empty.” I closed my eyes for a moment, remembering the feeling I had the first time I saw the sculpture. “I walked into the gallery and there she was, reclining on her marble plinth. Back lit from the light coming in through the windows. She glowed. Her wings are so thin; you can see light through the marble. But there’s nothing delicate about them. Not in material or in composition. It was magic.”
“It sounds like it. Did you see any more of the country or just Paris? Thank you,” he acknowledged the server as he set bowls of fragrant turtle soup in front of us, topping it with a splash of sherry.
It was basic civility. But I’d been around enough wealthy, powerful people to know actually seeing the people who took care of them wasn’t a guarantee. It reinforced my positive opinion of him.
“I backpacked through Alsace, staying in hostels as much as I could.” I took a sip of my wine, remembering the first time I’d traveled abroad and realized how big the world is. “I loved the half-timber buildings and the blend of French and German. I stayed in the cheapest places I could find and spent all my money on apples and pork and wine.” I tipped my glass in his direction.
“I wouldn’t have imagined you roughing it across France. It’s interesting to think about.” He steepled his hands in front ofhim, resting his fingertips against his lips as if he were trying to picture me with a backpack.
I knew what he was seeing. Hair cut in a shiny bob, makeup I spent a great deal of time and money on to make sure it didn’t look like makeup, and a silk blouse, pencil skirt, and designer wedges. It was a carefully constructed package.
“I don’t always wear Chanel,” I said, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. It wasn’t his fault he only saw the image I projected. It was exactly what I wanted him to see. I couldn’t expect him—or anyone else—to see beyond the carefully curated image. “Any more than I imagine you always wear custom-made suits.”
“No, I don’t.” He shook his head, his lips curved in a slight smile. “I didn’t mean to imply something bad. If anything, it makes you more interesting.”
“Wait until I tell you about the section of the Appalachian Trail I hiked.” I shuddered, remembering the mice who chewed through my food bag one night in the shelter.
“Fantastic,” he said, dissolving the last of the tension. “This is delicious.” He dipped a piece of bread into his soup. “Who knew a turtle could taste like this?”
“It is good, isn’t it? Sometimes the legend lives up to the hype.” I spooned up another mouthful of the velvety soup. I was past the point of depriving myself of truly delicious things. I’d do extra time in the gym to make up for it.
By the time we finished our soup and worked our way through the curried shrimp, we’d slipped into a comfortable silence. The server cleared the table, and John leaned back in his chair, satisfaction clear in his expression.
“I’d fully intended to order dessert, but I’m not sure I can eat another bite,” said John. “But you should have something if you want.”
“Nothing for me.” I folded my napkin and set it on the table in front of me. “It’s a shame because the creole bread pudding soufflé is exceptional, but I’m beyond satisfied.”
“Beyond satisfied is perfect.” He smiled, his gaze searching my face, and I wondered if he’d taken more from my word choice than my meaning. “I have an idea. I’m not flying out until this evening. If you have time, maybe we could walk the city a bit. You could show me the things you think I need to see, and we can make room for beignets.”
“I’d love to.” I’d always make time for a client. The fact that he also happened to be a successful, attractive man who knew what he wanted and went after it was a bonus.
