I glance around the empty restaurant. “Where is everyone?”
“I reserved the entire place for the night,” Calvin says casually, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “I figured we’d want some privacy. My brother owns Luxe, so it wasn’t that hard to arrange.”
Of course his brother owns the most popular restaurant in Boston.
Just then, the beautiful black woman standing too close to Calvin turns to us with a charming smile. “Hello, welcome to Luxe. I’ll be your chef this evening. Can I start you off with something to drink?” Her British accent glides effortlessly through her words, redirecting all of our attention.
“I’ll take the black-tie margarita,” Abigail says, then turns to me. “Do you mind driving?”
“Not at all. I’ll have water,” I request, eying the woman narrowly.
“We can all go in one car if you want to drink as well,” Calvin offers, and that’s a dangerous suggestion I don’t intend to play with.
“No, that’s alright,” I say immediately. “I’ll stick to water, thanks.”
Calvin shrugs. “Well, I guess you’ll have to babysit two people tonight. I’ll have the blackberry bourbon sidecar. Thanks, Lauren,” he says, making Abigail laugh a little too much, betraying her nervousness. Something is off about the two of them, and I can feel it… I just can’t tell what it is yet.
A small silence follows. My gaze sweeps over theinterior: dark wooden tables, contemporary artwork on the walls, and designer lights above us. It all screams wealth.
“So, have you been enjoying your stay so far? I understand it’s not Paris, but…” Calvin’s voice drags me back to reality.
“It’s been nice. Thank you,” I reply, mustering a polite but restrained smile. Before I can say anything else, Chef Lauren returns with a big smile on her face and our drinks.
“Here are your drinks. I’ll be back shortly to take your orders,” she announces.
“Thank you,” Abigail says as we all take our drinks. Right now, I regret not ordering an alcoholic drink. Surely that would help me deal with the situation a little better.
Once the chef leaves, I force my attention back on them. Abby sits next to him, but they don’t seem too… close. I’ve already noticed little things here and there, so I figure now is a good time to ask more questions. “How did you know my sister was the one?” I ask, watching as Abigail downs her drink in a gulp.
“That’s an excellent question. Your sister is a truly stunning woman, and the more time I spend with her, the more the idea of marriage and children becomes appealing.”
“But don’t you think things are moving rather fast between you two?” I probe, only to get kicked under the table. Abby gives me a warning look to shut up. “Ow.”
“It’s alright, darling. I can answer that.” Calvin’s voice is calm and reassuring. “None of us has control over time. I’ve always believed that if you find someone you love, or even just like, you should seize the moment. Tomorrow is never guaranteed.”
The silence returns, but not for long. Abby starts talking about the wedding, but it feels like a feeble attempt to distractherself from something, only I’m not sure what it is yet. I observe in silence. Sooner or later, I’ll figure it out.
Shortly after, Chef Lauren returns with refills and takes our orders. Abigail takes large sips of her drink each time I ask a question, slowly getting drunk. Meanwhile, Calvin and I fall into an easy conversation. He asks about my hobbies, whether I like Paris, and I can’t help but notice how genuinely curious he seems about me. And right now, that feels like a deadly quality to have.
The cursor blinks against the glow of my monitor, a mocking metronome keeping time with the hours I’ve spent on this design. A sleek glass tower for a private client in Chicago, the kind of project that demands perfection in every curve, every line. The 3D render hovers mid-rotation on one screen while a technical blueprint sprawls across another. My stylus glides over the digital sketchpad as I adjust the load-bearing structure, lines snapping neatly into place.
“Push the meeting to Tuesday,” I say into the phone, not looking away from the screen. The cursor glides across the render as I adjust the weight of a beam by half an inch.
On the other end, Matthew, my senior project manager, exhales. “That might be a problem, sir. The London contractors say the steel shipment’s been delayed, three, maybe four days. Customs hold-up at the port.”
I lean back slightly, eyes narrowing at the numbers on the structural model. “And they told you this when?”
“About an hour ago. They’re trying to reroute through Rotterdam, but…”
“No,” I interrupt, calm but clipped. “Tell them I want revised specs and a new delivery estimate by tomorrow morning. If they can’t manage that, we’ll move the contract to Vitruvian. They know how to meet a deadline.”
Matthew hesitates. “Understood. I’ll relay the message.”
“Do that,” I say, already glancing back at the load distribution chart.
A knock, sharp and deliberate, interrupts me.
“Hold on,” I murmur into the phone, my gaze shifting to the door as it swings open.
