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“I’m not the best person for COO of Crane Hotels, Sable.”
She tried to make the connection from his losing his mother to him being unfit for COO of Crane Hotels, but wasn’t sure how the two pieces fit together. Had his mother not wanted him to go into the family business? Or had she wanted him to and the idea of doing so made the pain of losing her fresh?
“Your father and brothers believe you’re perfect for COO,” she said. “They believe COO is your legacy—”
“Don’t”—he held up a hand—“give me the Batman speech.”
“The Batman speech?”
“About how I owe Gotham a debt that would be paid in full by my suiting up and fighting crime. Or, in this case, reporting for duty at the top floor of the Crane Hotel.” His delivery was dry, but there was humor under his words.
“Ah, this is well-tread territory.”
“You need mudding tires to go in there,” he said.
In his own way, he’d asked that she didn’t push him on this, and she respected him enough not to. Whatever reason Eli had for not showing up for work at the Crane, he hadn’t told anyone. Not yet. She wasn’t going to push him. Not when he’d let her leave her parents’ event elegantly, simply because she hadn’t wanted to be there.
At the delivery of their salads, she kept the conversation going. “What is Zach’s role in the charity?”
She’d read the website to better understand what Eli was doing. Refurbs for Vets provided ex-military support so their homes worked around them, not the other way around. Many vets came home needing prosthetic limbs, wheelchairs, or both, and navigating their homes became a whole new ball game when it came to mobility. Eli’s brainchild promised “top-notch craftsmanship, styled to the individual’s needs.” Remodels to kitchens, bathrooms, and any other part of the house that would allow the returning soldier to feel at home. It was admirable, and obvious that home and family were important to Eli—to all of the Cranes.
“Zach is a commercial contractor who has worked with Crane Hotels before,” Eli answered, forgoing the salad dressing and digging into dry lettuce. “He can get ahold of great deals on materials and he’s an honest, hardworking guy.”
“I would have guessed him hardworking, but he’s a tad too charming for me to brand him ‘honest.’”
Eli narrowed one eye.
“I can’t find him charming?” She raised her wineglass and sipped, enjoying Eli’s mild jealousy.
“You can as long as you don’t get that swoonlike sparkle in your eye when I mention him.” Eli rested his elbow on the table and wiggled one finger accusatorially at her.
“Why, Eli Crane. I had no idea you were capable of this kind of flirting.” She was having such an amazing evening with him. It was unexpected. Exciting.
“I used to be capable of a lot of things,” he murmured. There was a hint of grief behind his comment she didn’t like hearing.
The pasta arrived shortly after the salads and Benicia herself left the kitchen in a tomato-sauce-stained apron to introduce herself. She was small, gray-haired, with a large nose and a larger smile. She shook Eli’s hand, then Isa’s in a flour-dusted, bone-crushing grip.
She’d informed them that the tiramisu was on the house, then scuttled back to the kitchen to send it out. Eli and Isa ate in companionable silence much like they did at his house every weekday. They’d shared a lot of meals together, which made tonight feel less like a first date…if that’s what it was.
Dessert and espresso followed, but before she dug into her tiramisu—layered with homemade ladyfingers—there was a question she had to know the answer to. Tonight, he was being open and honest. How much more would he tell her?
“Eli?”
“Yeah?” He didn’t look up, piercing his dessert with his fork.
“Do you miss your leg?”
***
In typical Isabella Sawyer fashion, she crashed through the barriers of politeness. Rather than tiptoe around the topic, she’d busted in headfirst. It was a manner he could appreciate.
“Yes,” he answered honestly. Then waited to see where she’d go with the conversation.
She ate a bite of her dessert and chewed thoughtfully. He watched her full lips, no less tempting without the bright pink lipstick, his own fork suspended over his plate.
“In your journal—”
“That you weren’t supposed to read.”
