“So,” I say, “what kind of work keeps you so busy you’ve never been to a museum?”
“Investments,” he says. “Energy sector.”
The extravagant tip suddenly makes perfect sense. I lean back, looking at him. He has shed his jacket and rolled his sleeves to his elbows. His forearms are tanned and corded with muscle, the kind of strength that doesn't come from sitting in boardrooms. I wonder about the version of him that exists outside of a suit.
“Do you like it?”
He sits back and tilts his head as if no one has ever asked him that before. “Parts of it. The building. Creating something that didn't exist before. The rest is mostly meetings.”
“Meetings are the worst,” I agree. “I once sat through a three-hour debate about the correct font for an email signature. Three hours of my life I will never get back.”
“And what do you do?”
“Marketing. Graphic design and copy. Whatever Global Venture Media needs me to do, starting Monday. Assuming I don’t trip on my way into the building and embarrass myself in front of my new boss.”
“Maybe I should accompany you.”
He says it with a completely straight face. No smile. No change in tone.
“You know, in case of staircases,” he adds.
“Are you offering to be my personal staircase bodyguard?”
“If required.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, just barely, and I realize he’s been holding back that half-smile the entire time. I laugh, caught off guard by the strange, dry wit hidden behind his intensity.
“You’re funny,” I say. “In a very quiet way.”
“I’ve never been accused of that before.”
I reach for the lemon cake to give my hands something to do. It is tart and sweet. I catch him following my fork, and I raise an eyebrow. “Want to try this one?”
“I’m still processing the croissant.”
I grin. “So,” I say, “investments in the energy sector. That's vague enough to be interesting or boring. Which is it?”
“Depends on the day.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “Today was annoying.”
“So you came to stare at art instead.”
“Indeed,” he agrees.
“Did it help? Clear your head?”
He considers the question like it matters. “More than I expected.”
“The art or the company?” The words slip out before I can stop them.
His eyes meet mine and hold steady. “Both.”
My stomach flips. I look away, suddenly very interested in the crumbs on my plate.
“What about you?” he asks. “Why Silverpoint?”
“Fresh start.” I aim for a casual shrug. “New city. New everything.”
“Running away or toward something?”
