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Good workers are worth their weight in gold. If Mark and Brandon were honorable? Daniel would happily fork over twice as large a bonus to keep them. But they’re not.
Paul looks grateful that the whole deal hasn’t imploded, and I sit back, watching in awe. It’s amazing to watch Daniel work. He’s graceful with his verbal moves, leading Paul where he wants him to go, offering suggestions but also making ideas seem like Paul’s own. I’m intoxicated by him and the brilliance and strategy of his mind.
I take his hand beneath the table, running my thumb along the soft skin of the back of his hand, wanting to offer strength and support, though he needs neither. He gives me a subtle squeeze while not missing a beat in his discussion with Paul, who’s looking more and more reassured and acquiescent to Daniel by the minute.
The waitress comes by with a carafe of wine, but I hardly notice until she comes around to my spot. “Yes, please,” I answer, but something goes wrong. The carafe slips, and before I know it, I’ve been doused in red wine.
“Oh!” I proclaim, pushing away from the table. “What the—”
“I’m so sorry!” the waitress says, grabbing my napkin. She tries to blot up the wine, but that’s useless on my white blouse, and she’s pretty much pawing at my breasts. She’s basically rounding second base . . . or is it third? All I know is it’s causing even more of a commotion, and I can see other tables giving us interested looks.
Fuck . . . I could ruin this for Daniel.
“Uhm, excuse me for a moment.” I stand to go to the restroom to clean up, hoping there’s a hand dryer but well aware that a swanky place like this probably has real cotton towels to dry your hands after a washing. Still, I have to try.
“I’ll come with you. Gentlemen,” Gina says, placing her napkin on her chair as she stands with me.
We get to the bathroom, where I find that I was right. No air dryer, just a bunch of moist soft hand towels. Gina immediately tries to be helpful, taking one of the towels and blotting at my blouse with me, but I think we’re only ruining more things at this point. My shirt, plus two towels and a napkin . . . way to go, Tiffany!
“If you want any chance of saving this, soak it in cold water as soon as you get home, then make sure you take it to the cleaners first thing tomorrow. They’ll need to spot treat it as soon as possible or it’ll be ruined.”
There’s a definite motherly vibe to her advice, and to be honest, it’s a little hurtful. She doesn’t see us as equals in the slightest despite the civilized dinner. I’m just the little girl, the arm candy on Daniel’s arm.
“Thank you,” I still say politely, not wanting to rock the boat for Daniel’s potential business colleagues. Still, her friendly condescension is just another knock on the night.
When the stain is as good as it's going to get, which probably means I need to just burn the blouse as soon as I can, we step out together, making our way back to the table. While I feel like a Jackson Pollock painting of a menstrual eruption, Daniel and Paul are more relaxed as we approach, leaning back in their chairs as they talk.
Daniel smiles at something Paul says, and I see the soft crinkles at the corner of his eye. I smile too until I’m close enough to hear Paul.
“How many blue pills are you popping at night to keep up with a hot thing like that?” Paul asks, his voice in awe. If he were slurring, I might play it off, but he isn’t. He’s stone sober. “I mean, she’s hot enough to give a dead man a boner, but still, we gotta do what we gotta do at our age. At least when they’re young like that, they can do all the work. Saves your back. Am I right? And the view . . . you’re one lucky sonofabitch.”
Gina makes a gasping sound so quiet it’s lost in the din.
I pause, waiting for Daniel to set Paul straight, to eviscerate him verbally or maybe even physically because it’s not like that between us. I’m not some trophy Daniel is flaunting around like a testament to his manliness.
He likes my brain, my heart.
He likes me.
Not just my body or the way I look on his arm.
But the longer Daniel takes to respond, the less sure I become. The moment stretches as shock and shame turn my face hot and belly sour. And inside, a nasty little voice starts to whisper.
He hasn’t been exactly eager to be seen with me. I dragged him to the beach. I took him to the diner, which was far away from anyone we might know, and even then, we were asked questions by the waitress there.
