“Is this a problem?” I said.
“My age could be. Twenty-four hours ago, my life was on fire—literally—and now I’m standing on a rooftop with a man who is drop-dead handsome”—she gestured at me, which I’d take as a compliment—“and I don’t know whether I’m making good decisions or just running from bad ones.”
Fair point. I pulled out her chair. “Let’s eat and talk business after. I promise the food won’t try to kill you.”
A small smile. “That’s a low bar.”
“I’m a man who meets expectations.”
Her breathing hitched. “I’m sure you do.”
She sat, and I took the seat across from her, far enough to maintain some pretense of propriety. Not that propriety was winning any battles tonight.
I’d arranged for Andre, the head chef, to prepare everything personally. No allergens, no risks, just food that actually tasted like something other than cardboard. The first course arrived via private waiter—I’d stationed staff downstairs to send things up on cue.
Roasted beet salad with arugula and goat cheese and a balsamic reduction. Simple. Elegant. Safe.
Tashi took a bite and closed her eyes. The noise she made should’ve been illegal.
“Good?” I asked, though I knew the answer from the way her shoulders relaxed.
“I haven’t eaten food this good in…” She trailed off. “Ever, maybe. Daniel always picked restaurants that had no allergy accommodations. I usually just had a side salad.”
“Daniel sounds like he sucked.”
“He really did.” She took another bite. “I can’t believe I planned to marry him.”
“People make mistakes when they’re in love.”
“I wasn’t in love,” she said quietly. “I was in denial. There’s a difference.”
I wanted to ask what she meant, but the main course arrived—pan-seared salmon with asparagus and wild rice. More safe choices, more flavors that wouldn’t try to murder her via anaphylaxis.
“Tell me something,” I said as we ate. “What made you take this job? Really. You left everything behind for a hotel with a PR problem and three strangers who could’ve been serial killers for all you knew.”
She laughed. “The interview process was pretty thorough. I figured if you were serial killers, you’d have better things to do than hire a spin doctor.”
“Solid logic.”
“And…” She set down her fork. “I needed to get away. From Daniel, from the life I’d built that wasn’t actually mine. This felt like a fresh start. Even if the start included setting myself on fire. Tell me, Leo. What really happened with that microwave? Was I just in the wrong place at the wrong time?”
I chose my words carefully. “We don’t know yet. Until then I can’t comment. But I give you points for staying. Someone less brave would have run.”
“Where else would I go?”
“Back to New York. Back to Daniel, even. People choose bad over unknown all the time.”
She shook her head. “I’m done choosing bad.”
“Good.” I raised my wineglass—sparkling cider for her because the doctor had ordered no alcohol for a week, and Pinot Noir for me. “To choosing better.”
She clinked her glass against mine, and for a moment we just sat there, watching Vegas sparkle below us like someone had spilled diamonds across black velvet.
“Can I ask you something personal?” she said.
“Depends on how personal.”
“Why aren’t you married? You, Ares, Orion. Three successful, attractive men in your forties. Statistically, at least one of you should be divorced by now.”
