It is both a hope and a promise.
Lunch turns out to be the best meal I’ve had in my entire life. I have to make an effort to keep my expression neutral as Cecily tells me about settling into the new house, her plans for the week, and the article she’s working on about the North American healthcare system.
I like this shift in our dynamic.
Over the phone, I’m usually the one who talks the most, telling her about my family, about the places I travel to for work. But I could listen to her for hours.
When the crème brûlée arrives, she cracks the sugar top with her spoon and takes the first bite. I almost groan when she closes her eyes, a soft sound slipping from her throat.
I clear my own.
“Is it any good?”
Her eyes meet mine, and she nods with a smile. I try to focus on mycrêpe au chocolatfor the rest of the time, and fail completely.
When the check arrives and I see her reaching for her purse, I place my hand gently over hers.
“I invited you. I’m paying.”
“Alexander, this isn’t a date. I should at least split it,” she says, looking slightly embarrassed.
I’d be lying if I said her calling it not a date didn’t sting. But she’s right—it isn’t. Nor will the next lunches or dinners I plan to take her to.
She’s not ready. It isn’t the time, but I’ll wait. For her, waiting is a small price.
“I insist. Where I come from, men pay for the meal even when it isn’t a date.”
She sighs and nods.
After paying, I walk her to the car and open the door the moment she unlocks it, but she doesn’t step inside right away.
“Thank you for the invitation. Lunch was amazing and the company even better. And thank you, especially... for the friend you’ve been to me.”
I lean in and press a quick kiss to her cheek.
“If anyone should be grateful, it’s me.” I hold her gaze so she knows I mean every word. “Drive safely, and please text me when you get home.”
Cecilia nods, steps inside, and I stay exactly where I am, watching her until her car turns right at the end of the street and disappears.
“See you soon,bella mia[V].”
Morning breaks through the tall window, sketching pale lines across the Italian stone floor.
“They arrived yesterday from Carrara,” Lilian, my executive assistant at the New York headquarters, says as she places a folder on my desk. “New samples of the Bianco Macchiato, and the quarterly extraction report.”
I nod, running my thumb along the edge of one of the samples. The central vein splits the white in almost symmetrical lines, a rarity.
“This vein is natural?” I ask.
“Yes. No retouching.”
“Good. Keep it that way. Imperfections tell the story.”
She checks her notes for a moment before continuing.
“Export numbers dipped marginally. But transport costs went down as well, almost ten percent.”
“Ideally, both should decrease,” I say, eyes drifting to the window. “Margin isn’t the priority here. Stability is. And in our line of work, rushing production or logistics always costs more in the long run.”
