“Not really. It was London in the nineties. Part of figuring out who I was and what I wanted.”
“Here you are, sir.” Returned, the sommelier is deferential to Aleksandr, poised to pour him a sample of the wine.
“She’ll try it,” Aleksandr says, nodding towards Lili.
The sommelier—serious, older, thin wire-frame glasses—fills her glass with a taste of wine. Lili takes a sip, unsure of exactly what to do. Remembering some half-read article fromBon Appétit, she holds the alcohol on her tongue, and lets the soft heat linger, the rasp of acidity swelling at the back of her throat: mineral, sharp, austere. She tries to concentrate on the wine, because the way Aleksandr watches her as she swallows—
“Good,” Lili nods. She looks away from Aleksandr, ignoring the flush across her cheeks. “Yeah, it’s good.”
“Wonderful,” the sommelier says, tipping a full pour into her glass. As he pours Aleksandr’s glass and then sets the bottle into the wine bucket, Lili takes a long gulp.
Aleksandr laughs, low. “Let the wine breathe a little.”
“Let the winewhatnow?” she mutters. Alcohol blooms hot and comforting in her empty stomach, but a twist of anxiety tightens—good wine, dinner: contours she needs to clarify. “This isn’t a date,” she says, glancing back at Aleksandr. “To be clear.”
“Of course not,” he says, not even looking up from the menu.
She frowns. Annoyed by his nonchalance, wanting more of a reaction. “Do I want to know how much that bottle was?”
Aleksandr looks up at that, amused. “Why? You won’t be paying.”
“Don’t be sexist,” she asserts, ignoring how she usually claims women can only be expected to split dinner once the gender wage gap has closed.
“What type of man would I be if I invited you to dinner and let you pay?”
“Let me at least pretend to reach for the check.”
“Do boys your age actually expect you to pay?”
“It’s only fair—”
“Lili, enough,” he says, frowning. He snaps his menu closed. Their main waiter is back immediately, along with another man dressed in chef’s whites. Aghast, Lili’s annoyance with him for cutting her off—realizing, really, how rarely he’s ever done so—is frustratingly mired by arousal at his condescension.
Aleksandr speaks easily with the new man—dark hair, clean white apron—who Lili realizes is the head chef, who’s suddenly asking her about her preference for green tomatoes, leeks, hazelnuts, maitake mushrooms, confirming that she doesn’t eat meat or dairy.
“How did you find staying at the apartment?” Aleksandr asks her once they’re alone again.
Lili shakes out her napkin, laying it over her lap. She might as well be honest. “Good. I mean, it was great, actually. Sort of saved me, being able to just work.” She bites her lip, lets it go. “I—I stayed in your bed. I hope that’s alright?”
“Of course, it’s alright. You’re well acquainted with it.”
“Not without you in it,” she counters, teasing.
No, Lili, she thinks.Flirting.
He grins. “Tell me more about your meeting with your adviser.”
That’s right. There’s a reason they’re sharing dinner. She leans into it, glowing: She wants to share her success, speak to what she’s accomplished, dive into detail that her friends can’t quite get—not their field, not their world. “Well, Kerr still has to read it in-depth, but I handed in my revision. He’ll have more edits, the final deadline isn’t until fall—but this felt like it might finally be coming together.”
“Don’t be modest. You’re smart, and you know you are. Capitalism thrives on the labor of insecure overachievers. Don’t give it the satisfaction, yes?”
“I amnotan insecure overachiever,” Lili asserts. “Great—it wentgreat. He thinks I could publish.”
“There you go,” Aleksandr says. “And is that what you want to do?”
“What do you mean?”
“For your career. Would you like to publish, go into academia? You didn’t seem enthused by the prospect of joining our sustainable investing team,” he observes, not even trying to hide his amusement.
