She gave him a slightly irritated look. “Because a lot of parties feature that kind of thing…kids over the years, first dates, all that.” She took the last bite of her chicken, wiped her mouth, and set down her fork. “That was delicious. Thank you.”
“Would you like dessert?” he asked.
“Yes, but you don’t like dessert, so we can get the check. I have to pack, anyway. Do you have a suitcase I can borrow? I just thought of that.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Would you like me to pack for you?” she asked.
“Oh. No, that’s fine.”
“I am your personal assistant, after all,” she said. “When I was a teenager, I worked at a clothing store in Wellfleet. I can fold clothes perfectly. And I’ve seen boxer shorts before. I’ll bet you have some things to review before tomorrow morning.”
He felt his mouth tug at one corner. “I…all right, then. Sure.” It felt oddly intimate, but as she said, that was her job.
He paid the bill, gathered up her bags, and together they walked home through the Public Garden, past the duckling statues, then onto Beacon Street. They didn’t talk.
“You have two very beautiful homes,” Winnie said as they went up the stairs of his apartment building. It was beautiful, built in the late 1800s, red brick and granite.
“Thank you,” he said. She had yet to stay over here, so he showed her to the guest room, got a spare suitcase and set his own on his bed, then pulled out the clothes he’d be wearing—three suits, five shirts, four ties, five pairs of socks, two pairs of linen trousers and two sweaters for traveling, plus his running clothes and sneakers. And yes, his boxers. He kept a toiletry bag packed at all times, since he didn’t like to have to wonder if he’d forgotten anything.
Then he went down the hall to the library, opened his laptop, and went over his notes once more. As he did, he could hear Winnie moving around down the hall, opening doors and drawers, humming as she did.
It was a surprisingly nice sound.
TEN
WINNIE
Winnie had slept like the dead in the exquisitely comfortable bed in Lorenzo’s guest room. After they’d come back from dinner last night, she’d gone down to the nearest CVS and bought herself the necessary toiletries and a small case for the same. Then she packed their suitcases while Lorenzo did whatever Lorenzo did in the evenings. (Hint: he was in the den, and he was quiet.) She didn’t see him again until she walked into the kitchen at 6:00 a.m.
“Good morning,” he said.
“Good morning,” she returned, and wheeled his suitcase toward him.
“Espresso?” he asked.
“No thanks,” she said, eyeing his sludge. She’d grab a cup of Dunkin’ at the airport.
The pit of her stomach was quivering with excitement about this trip. For one, the clothes. Sure, they were all black and white and gray, but she’d never worn such a nice outfit as the black pants, black sweater and black boots she currently had on. She looked like a really cool assassin, she thought, or a French woman. Same vibe. Her bag was the only thing that wasn’t new, but it was a Kate Spade backpack in emerald green, a gift from Addie a couple of Christmases ago, and it added a cheery splash of color.
She’d never been to San Francisco before. Hopefully, she’d have some time to walk around a little if Lorenzo didn’t need her. Get some chocolate at Ghirardelli, maybe, or ride a cable car.
“Here’s your boarding pass,” Lorenzo said, texting it to her.
She looked at it. Seat 2B. “Is this in first class?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Cool.” She’d never traveled first class before. According to Addison, first class meant a cleaner bathroom and a seat an inch or two bigger than in economy. Thrilling, the privileges of wealth.
Lorenzo sipped his espresso and stared out the window. He really was attractive, Winnie thought. She wondered if he had an arrangement with someone for sex (though if he did, it wasn’t on his calendar). At the restaurant last night, a woman had been very obviously staring at him, which Winnie found unsubtle and also rude. They weren’t together, but they could’ve been. Happily, Lorenzo ignored her, or just didn’t see her. Winnie suspected the latter. He was not the type whose attention wandered, and last night, his attention had been on her.
I want you to look like the successful woman you are.
That sentence had been both a slight insult and also incredibly validating. She was getting used to that combination from Dr. Satan.
A car service picked them up at 6:30, and traffic was only on a scale of 8, 10 being a standstill. “We probably could’ve walked here faster,” she observed.
