“Really? You all seem very close.”
“Sort of, yes. I think I just got lost in the shuffle. Two of my sisters were valedictorian, Harlow resurrected our grandmother’s bookstore, Lark’s a doctor, everyone goes nuts over identical twins, Robbie’s the only boy and the baby. Addie kind of sucks up all the air in the room with her perfect life and perfect children—by the way, they’re demons, never let them in your home. And then there’s me. Competent, but otherwise unremarkable in just about every way.”
It was his turn to pull back and look at her. “That’s not a word I would associate with you.”
Her cheeks flushed, and her eyes were that fascinating blend of green and gray and gold, maybe a hint of blue now. Not unremarkable in the least.
“Mm. Well, that’s nice to hear, and thank you. But it’s not exactly the stuff of dreams, you know?”
“Being good at your job should be the stuff of dreams. You’ve made my life more organized and efficient, and therefore more pleasant. I appreciate that.”
“I’m glad you feel that way.”
He wanted to tell her it wasn’t just organization skills and efficiency. It was her thoughtfulness. Those scented candles, even if they were somewhat ridiculous, the flowers, the bowl of oranges. Every detail she’d been taking care of since he’d hired her had left him free to fill that space up with something more important, or just…just to breathe, really. That first night in Chatham, when they sat on the deck, for example. He needed to do that more. This very dinner, which had given him a reason to walk in the famed fog of San Francisco rather than stay in and order room service and review his notes. Right now, he was doing something he never did—having dinner with an interesting, funny, competent and rather pretty woman. One who hadn’t flirted back with the bartender—she was too elegant for that. She asked questions without being nosy, listened to his answers and wasn’t the least bit intimidated by him. In his eyes, she was quite…special.
But he had no idea how to say that, and the moment passed. It was better that way.
“Would you like to walk back to the hotel?” he asked.
“I think I’ll take an Uber,” she said. “The wine is making me sleepy. It’s also raining pretty hard.”
Normally, he would’ve said fine and walked himself, alone, briskly, to facilitate digestion and clear his head. But that would be rude, and while being rude was his trademark, he did not want to be rude to Winnie Smith. “I’ll see you to your door, in that case.”
They didn’t talk on the ride back, which was brief. At the hotel, he followed her to the bank of elevators, nodding to a few doctors he knew. They got off on their floor. “Which room is yours?” he asked.
“Right down here,” she said, pointing to the end of the hall. He walked her down, waited till she opened the door. “Thank you for a lovely dinner, Lorenzo,” she said.
“Thank you,” he said, meaning it. “You’re excellent company.”
She smiled a little, then said, “Sleep well,” and closed her door.
Usually, Lorenzo did sleep well. That night, he did not, and for the life of him, he could not understand why.
TWELVE
WINNIE
Winnie woke up feeling fantastic. No fuzziness, despite her cocktail and wine the night before, no jet lag, no urge to stay in bed. She pulled up Yoga with Adriene on her laptop for half an hour of yoga—her legs ached pleasantly from walking up and down the hills of San Francisco. Adriene had a session for that, of course, and Winnie stretched and bent and balanced.
The part of yoga she disliked was the meditation. She’d never been able to empty her mind as instructed. As she lay there in corpse pose, a thought circled that she wasn’t sure she wanted to push away.
Dinner with Lorenzo last night had felt like a date. A really good date.
Not that she’d had much experience with that sort of thing. Before Mitchell, she’d tried the automatic go-to for single people—online dating. Bumble had directed her to a carpenter in Provincetown (gay, looking for a woman to create a threesome for him and his apparently bisexual husband). Hard pass. The next guy had had social anxiety to the point where he actually slid under the table to avoid talking to a server. She’d gotten him up, walked him to his car and recommended therapy, texted him a day or so later to see if he was okay and learned that he’d moved to Arizona to live with his sister. The next man only wanted to text, not meet, which Winnie thought was ridiculous.
For her business, she’d actually run a couple of singles nights, but as the person in charge, she just watched. Had some guy approached to chat her up, she would’ve been game, but no one had. No one ever did that kind of thing anymore. Not to her, at least.
And then there had been Mitchell-Tanner. In hindsight, it was so clear—he’d asked her to the restaurant at closing only, or have her come to his place to cook for her. But he’d never taken her anywhere. He’d also love-bombed her…flower arrangements, special desserts, five-course dinners made at his condo. Dozens of texts every day telling her he missed her, couldn’t stop thinking about her, had never felt this way before about anyone. You’re so beautiful. I dreamed about you last night. Is it wrong that I’m picturing our wedding? He’d bought her pearl earrings (which she later returned and donated the money to a homeless shelter). Silk pajamas and sexy underwear. He told her she was beautiful, sexy, addictive, and she fell for it. She felt like a different woman, the Winnie loved by this fictional man.
But last night with Lorenzo, she’d been completely herself…just the best version. Maybe because it wasn’t a date, though it was their second dinner together in a week. He was simply her boss, and he hated schmoozing, and they both simply needed to eat. There was no pull between them, as there had been with Mitchell-Tanner. Granted, Satan’s looks were growing on her. Initially, she’d thought of him as bland as, oh, one of those suit models in GQ, chiseled but unremarkable. But when he granted her the upward tug of a smile, she felt a little like she’d just won a prize. His hand, as he’d helped her off her stool at the end of dinner, had been warm and firm.
There was also the fact that she liked talking to him. He was interesting and a little quirky. She liked his stiff, almost old-fashioned way of speaking. But she’d had actual fun last night. She’d been his PA for seven weeks now, and while most of her work had been without him there, she was getting to know him. His love of precision and order, which doubtlessly was part of his surgical talent, was something she could relate to. Her little house in Wellfleet was always immaculate, everything in its place, tidy and comforting.
There was more to Lorenzo than a condescending asshole with God complex, that was for sure. Last night, she’d had the sudden thought that it wasn’t just his sense of superiority that kept him from other people…it was that he was socially awkward, not intending to put people off, but unaware of how to put people at ease. He’d essentially been put on a path at the age of seven with one goal and one goal only—to be the best. He didn’t know how to converse, relax, or spend time with people for the pleasure of their company. He’d been trained not to, in fact.
An idea struck her, and she leaped off the hotel-provided yoga mat and flipped open her laptop. It took all of ninety seconds. She saved the file, sent it to Lorenzo via email, then texted him.
Just sent you an updated version of your PowerPoint. Make sure you use this one.
