“Same,” she says, but her eyes warm.
I shut the door. The latch catches with a neat little click that feels like relief once the door is between us and… everything else. No ballrooms. No eyes. Just a room with a view and a table for two. If Cat wants credit, she has it.
The suite is one of the mid-level ones with a good view and a generous layout.
“Hungry?” Olivia asks, walking back to the table.
“Yes,” I say. I set the wine on the console, shrug out of my jacket, and place it over the chair arm. “Stay,” I add, because she moves like she’ll start serving. “Let me.”
She stills. I can feel her eyes on my hands while I pour the wine, then hand her a glass.
We don’t clink. We taste.
“Good?” I ask.
She nods. “Really good.”
The first cloche lifts to reveal a platter of hors d’oeuvres: warm arancini the size of walnuts with a truffle-parm center; tiny potato rounds crowned with crème fraîche and a spoon of paddlefish caviar; crab salad in crisp phyllo cups; prosciutto-wrapped figs. On the side was a small bowl of variety olives; burrata with roasted tomatoes, asparagus roasted with chili flakes. There was a small plateof charcuterie with a variety of meats and cheeses, nuts and jams.
On top of all that, there were still entrees. Pasta with clams, steam curling up, parsley and saffron. The second is steak sliced over greens with charred lemon.
Dessert sits on ice to the side: chocolate budino with sea salt; lemon sorbet in tiny glasses; and a dish of berries with fresh cream.
I’m not sure who set up the whole thing, Bianca or Caterina, but I have a feeling it was a joint effort because it’s definitely overkill.
“Wow,” Olivia says, echoing my thoughts. “How much did she think we were going to eat?”
“I suspect Bianca had something to do with this as well,” I say. “She loves to feed people.”
“Well, I love to eat.” Olivia laughs.
I pull her chair out and breathe in the smell of her subtle perfume when I push her chair in. I take the seat across from her.
The music is soft, and the flickering candlelight is soothing. I can’t hear a thing going on downstairs. My nerves settle for the first time all night.
“To the person who planned this,” she says, lifting her glass.
“To her terrible influence,” I answer, clink, and wedrink.
We start small. An arancino each, too hot at first, so we blow on them like children and try not to laugh. The center goes molten and perfect, truffle soft and salty. She closes her eyes for one second, the way she does when something is exactly right. I file it away.
We plate without a fuss and eat like people who missed dinner. Because we did.
“Better than shaking a hundred hands,” I say.
“By a landslide,” she answers, a little smile on her face. Her shoulders have dropped; the line of her mouth is soft. She sets her glass down and looks at me over the rim in a way that feels private. “I didn’t think we’d get this tonight.”
“Neither did I.” I break a piece of bread and offer half across the table. Our fingers brush. “Cat strong-armed us both.”
“I’m glad,” Olivia says.
“Me too.” I pour a touch more wine, then fork a slice of steak over to her plate unasked. “Eat. You’ve been running on fumes and willpower.”
She snorts once, grateful, and takes a bite. She puts some of the pasta on my plate as well. For a while, we let the food do the talking—small sounds of approval, a shared look when I hold out my fork with a bite of clam for her.
Downstairs, the party goes on. People dance and laugh and drink. The chips are flowing, the slots are blinking.
But I’m perfectly content up here, just the two of us.
