Not that there are heaps of chocolates, but there are enough to make it look pretty.
Afterward, she fills some vases with water and starts to arrange the flowers in them.
I drink my whiskey, reach for the bottle, and refill. "Well, I tried."
"Not in the right way."
"So, I don't even get fucking points for effort?"
She pauses, flower held in one hand. "Not yet."
"Great."
"You need a gesture that's personal and big, and small and intimate, too. A chef dinner by the pool that's littered with floating candles."
I raise my hand. "This is fucking Brooklyn. No pool."
"Not even in that basement?"
"No."
"What—"
"Lyndall? Concentrate," I mutter.
She sighs. "Okay, well. Dad has one. On both properties."
I look at her like she's lost her fucking mind. "I'm not taking any kind of date to one of Dad's places, let alone the daughter of his enemy."
Her eyes get big, but I narrow mine, and she drops it. For now.
It's always for now with Lyndall.
I shrug and take a sip. "Maybe something without a pool."
She points the flower at me. "You have the backyard. It's tiny. But it's nice. And you've got the terrace on your floor and mine."
"You have a suite, not a floor."
"No, I have a floor. You don't use much of your home, you know."
"Okay, so I, what?"
"Send some dresses."
"After the fiasco with the lingerie?"
"Dresses and an option for us to change them. Come on, let me have your card to do that with..."
"Do I trust you?" I draw a pattern through the water she's spilled on the island.
"No, but you can." And she smiles and goes back to arranging.
"So, what is it I'm doing?"
"Dinner." She gasps. "You know that Michelin star chef, François from Frank's in the West Village?"
"How...?"
