“Tania.” He takes my hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“All good, I hope.”
“Of course. Silas doesn’t talk much, so when he does, I listen.” He releases my hand. “Glad you could join us today. I’ve been stuck in meetings here all week. Looking forward to flying home with you both tonight.”
“We’re happy to have the company.” Silas straightens slightly.
Richard checks his watch. “We should head up. First meeting starts in five minutes.”
The conference room has a long table surrounded by too many men in suits. They shake my hand and ask polite questions that I answer carefully. Silas introduces me as his wife every time, and I watch how they react—surprised, curious, and approving.
Richard sits at the head of the table. Silas sits to his right, and I sit beside Silas.
I sit through presentations about cap rates and market projections. Silas doesn’t hold my hand or touch me. But twice, when someone asks a question that he doesn’t like, I feel his knee press against mine under the table.
And I press back.
The second meeting bleeds into the third, in a different room but with the same energy. By then, I want to know more. Not to show off that I actually understand what they’re talking about, because I’m curious.
A property portfolio the triplets are considering buying includes historic buildings, and I want to know if they’re preserving the architecture or gutting it for modern aesthetics.
So, I ask.
The acquisition manager blinks rapidly. Silas doesn’t react. Richard leans forward, interested.
“We’re preserving,” the manager says. “We are restoring the buildings instead of renovating them.”
“Good.” I lean back. “Historic properties lose value when you strip them.”
Silas’s hand lands on my thigh under the table. The action is brief, warm, and done before I can react.
The meetings wrap at six, and Richard loosens his tie. “Our dinner reservation is at seven. That gives us an hour.”
The restaurant is only three blocks away, so I ask Silas if we can walk. I could use the fresh air after being cooped up in conference rooms all day.
He agrees.
The evening air is cool against my skin. When we arrive early, I slip into the bathroom to touch up my lipstick. My reflection appears composed, but my pulse hasn’t settled since his hand touched my leg.
Get it together. This is work.
When I return, Silas is waiting near the host stand, and Richard is walking through the door.
The restaurant has windows overlooking the water and more forks at each place setting than I’ve ever used in one meal.
Silas pulls out my chair. I sit, and he takes the seat beside me instead of across. He’s close enough that his thigh brushes mine when he shifts.
Richard orders wine, the waiter pours, and Silas’s hand finds mine on the table. And I smile at him, pretending that I am the doting wife who is enjoying the affection.
Except, I’m not actually pretending; I’m loving every second of this.
His thumb strokes across my knuckles, slow and steady, while Richard talks about quarterly projections and board elections.
I try to focus. I really do. But Silas’s hand is warm, and his thumb keeps moving, and when I glance at him, his face is unreadable.
Richard finishes his point and tilts his head. “So. How did you two meet?”
Here we go. This is what I rehearsed.
