Chapter 19
Laura didn't come back.
Not Friday. Not the weekend. The guest room stayed empty. The suitcase marks on the marble faded. The house went quiet again.
Monday.
I was at my desk by 7:30 a.m. The Liang file was closed. The board deck was done. Maria put coffee down without speaking. She'd learned.
At 6:12 p.m. my phone lit up. Alexandra – Mobile.
"Don't work late," he said. No hello. "Be home by seven. Get dressed. We're going to dinner."
I stared at the screen. "What?"
"Dinner. Date. Seven-thirty reservation." Pause. "Wear the box on your bed."
He hung up.
The box was on my bed. Matte black. No logo. No note. Inside: brown.
Not brown. Brown. Deep, warm, cut like it was made from my shadow. Curved. Soft fabric that held where it needed to hold and let go where it didn't. Off-shoulder. Fitted through the waist, the hips. Slit to the thigh. Back low enough to be a problem. It didn't hide anything. It wasn't supposed to.
It left out all my assets. On purpose.
I put it on. My hands shook. Not from fear. From something else.
He was waiting downstairs at 7:25. Black suit. No tie. He looked up when I hit the last step.
He didn't speak. He didn't have to. His eyes did it for him. They went from my feet to my face and back down. Slow. Like he was counting. Like he was losing count.
"You—" He stopped. Cleared his throat. "Car's outside."
---
Vespertine. 8:02 p.m.
Corner table. Candles. No menu. The chef sent courses because Alexandra Vega didn't order. He existed and food arrived.
We ate. Tuna tartare. Truffle risotto. Wine I didn't taste.
He didn't take his eyes off me. Not when the waiter spoke. Not when his phone buzzed. Not when the violinist started playing something slow and stupid.
"You don't wear brown," he said. Halfway through the second course.
"I don't own brown," I said. "Until today."
He nodded. Like that answered something. "My mother asked me to take you to dinner. Six months ago. When we signed."
I put my fork down. "And?"
"And I didn't." He cut his steak. Didn't eat it. "Today I decided to."
"Why?"
He looked at me. Really looked. Not like a contract. Not like a problem. "To figure it out."
"Figure what out?"
He didn't answer. The violinist switched songs. He stood. Held out his hand.
"Dance."
I took it. His palm was warm. Dry. Steady.
The floor was small. Dark. We weren't the only ones, but it felt like it. His hand went to my back. Right where the fabric stopped. Skin to skin. His other hand held mine. Not tight. Not loose. Right.
We didn't talk. We moved. He led. I followed. My thigh showed through the slit. His thumb brushed it once. By accident. Or not.
He looked at me like he was solving an equation. Like the answer was on my face and he just needed to see it from the right angle.
He didn't. Not out loud.
We left at 10:14. He didn't speak in the car. He opened my door. Waited until I was inside. Sat in the front. Not next to me.
---
Alexandra
He watched her walk into the restaurant. Brown. Curved. Every man in the room looked. He saw it. He cataloged it. He didn't care about them.
He cared that she didn't notice. Or if she did, she didn't care. She only looked at him.
He bought the dress at 3:47 p.m. Saw it in a window on Madison. Didn't go in. Texted his assistant a photo. "This. Her size. My penthouse. By six." It was there at 5:12.
He didn't know why. His mother told him to take his wife to dinner. That was six months ago. He ignored it. Today he didn't.
He wanted to know. What it was. The thing. The pull.
It wasn't the dress. It was her in it. It wasn't the back. It was his hand on it. It wasn't the slit. It was her thigh when she moved and how she didn't hide it. Didn't apologize for it.
She ate slow. She listened when he talked. She didn't fill silence. She let it sit. She danced like she wasn't afraid he'd step on her feet. He didn't.
He couldn't take his eyes off her. He tried. For the analytics of it. To see if it was novelty. It wasn't. By dessert he stopped trying.
He liked her voice. Low. Even. He liked that she didn't ask why he was staring. He liked that she stared back.
He liked that she was comfortable. That was it. That was the thing. He liked her comfortable. Liked her safe. Liked her fed. Liked her in his car, in his house, in brown.
He didn't have a word for it. He didn't have a name for what sat in his chest when she breathed. When she looked at him. When she didn't look at anyone else.
He was confused. That was the only word that fit.
He didn't know what he felt for Katrina. He didn't know what to call the pull, the quiet, the way his brain went silent when she was near.
He didn't know. And that was new.
He got out of the car. Opened her door. Watched her walk inside. The dress moved. She didn't look back.
He stood there until the elevator doors closed.
Confused. That was all he had.