And I saw it—the same conflict I felt. The same struggle between what we should do and what we wanted to do.
"This is a bad idea," I said quietly.
"What is?"
"This. Us. Whatever's happening here."
"Probably."
"You're my boss."
"I know."
"I'm..."Investigating you. Lying to you. Falling for you."I'm keeping secrets."
"Aren't we all?"
Fair point.
I flipped the chicken. Added capers and lemon juice. Let the silence stretch while I cooked.
"Julia?"
"Yeah?"
"The secrets you're keeping. Are they the kind that will hurt me?"
My throat tightened.
Yes. If you knew who I really was, why I'm really here, what my family thinks you did—yes. It would hurt you.
"I don't want them to," I said. Which wasn't an answer. But was the truth.
"That's not very reassuring."
"I know." I plated the chicken. Added roasted vegetables. Drizzled sauce. Set it in front of him. "But it's the best I can do right now."
He stared at the plate. At me.
"This looks incredible."
"Wait until you taste it."
We ate. The food was good. The wine was better. The conversation flowed easier than it had before—movies, books, places we wanted to travel.
The careful dance of two people getting to know each other while hiding who they really were.
After dinner, we moved to the couch. Sat with wine and the city lights spread below us through the windows.
"Thank you for dinner," Quentin said.
"Thank you for trusting me enough to let me into your home."
"I'm not sure trust is the right word."
"What would you call it?"
"Hope." He looked at me. "I'm hoping you're who you seem to be. I'm hoping my instincts about you are right. I'm hoping..." He trailed off.
