“It’s good.”
“It is adequate.”
She pauses and looks at me, a small smile playing at her lips. “Adequate?"
“I have had better.”
“Where?”
“A little village outside of Florence. The woman who runs it is ninety years old and makes the pasta every morning by hand.”
That small smile widens, grows soft.
“Have you been to Florence many times?”
“My family is from Italy. I have been to many places.”
“I’ve never been,” she says.
“You should.”
“Maybe one day.” She takes another bite. “When I’m not so busy building security protocols for demanding clients.”
Her tone is light, teasing.
A joke.
From a woman who has not once joked with me.
I feel my own lips curve into a smile. “Demanding clients expect the best.”
"Not always," she says contemplatively. "Some just like it. Makes them feel like they have control."
"Those men are usually the ones with the least control of all," I reply.
I am surprised by how easily this conversation flows.
Stripped of the office, of the contracts, of the professional barriers, this is… easy.
And dangerous.
It is one thing to want her body.
It is another to like her.
“Are you going back to Italy soon?” she asks, spooning up some soup.
“Eventually. Business calls me back often.”
I do not tell her that my business there has become more complicated lately. Or that the reasons are not entirely legal.
She doesn’t press. She just nods, accepting the information without question.
We finish the pasta in comfortable silence.
She starts to clean up, stacking the plates, but I stop her.
“No.”
