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Chapter Eight
Vivian
I’m having lunch with Amber at a sidewalk cafe downtown. The homemade croissants on the chicken salad sandwiches could give Villa Moneta’s fancy-pants menu a run for its money. I finish half and debate the other buttery half before diving in, carbs be damned.
Amber has been chattering nonstop since we sat down. I don’t mind. Changing my name made me a good listener. When I speak I have to be vague, so she’s saving me the trouble.
“Enough about me and my life-woes,” she says suddenly. Her woes are adorable. I don’t mean that disrespectfully. I complained about my mom and dad too, before Steele-Gate. Back when we were a normal family who wasn’t under investigation by the FBI. “Did you go to dinner with Nathaniel Owen yet?”
So she did hear him ask.
“You’ve kept quiet about that until now,” I tease as I reach for my iced tea.
“You’re not the kind of woman who appreciates a prying friend.”
I wince. Amber’s and my relationship is surface, and she just pointed a finger at that obvious fact. Marnie and I have no boundaries. There’s no need for them since she knows the truth.
“I went to dinner with him last week,” I tell Amber. No reason not to tell her about it. Nothing happened. I feel a smidge of disappointment as I consider that fact.
“He’s incredibly good-looking. How did I not know that?”
“It wasn’t like Daniel and Gary came into the office swooning over how hot Nate is.”
“Nate, huh?” Her eyebrows jump. I throw her a bone.
“At first I took Daniel at his word and assumed Owen was another powerful rich guy trying to take more of what he doesn’t deserve. I suspect our dinner was mostly about Nate staying in my good graces, but I have to admit, I think he actually believes in what he’s doing.”
He sounded passionate about his construction project, and almost humble when it came to the Owens.
“Those shoes seemed more like he was trying to wedge his way into your skirt, not your good graces.”
She’s usually not this frank. It’s refreshing. Am I intimidating? I smile sadly. Maybe I overcorrected when I tried to be aloof.
“I’m not interested in Nate.” More like I refuse to be interested in him.
“Really?” Her frown is genuine. “Not to be presumptuous, but you don’t think he’d be fun?”
I laugh instead of envisioning how fun sleeping with him would be. If our banter over dinner, the gentle way he slipped my shoes onto my feet, and the combustible energy between us when he didn’t kiss me was anything to go by, we’d bring down the house if we slept together. I shiver at the thought and adjust myself in my seat to cover for it.
“Men like him are more work than they are fun, Am,” I say pragmatically, trying to convince both of us.
She smiles warmly when I use the shortened form of her name. Definitely, I need to loosen up. “I’m glad we did this. You eat at your desk so often I wasn’t sure you’d accept a lunch invitation.”
“I appreciate you asking.” I mean it. It’s nice having a friend. “We’ll do this more.”
“Good. Actually…” Her pausing gives me pause. “I was going to ask you for a favor.”
Ah. I remember why I was keeping to myself now.
My smile is plastic. “Oh?”
“Daniel asked me to attend a function on Saturday but my sister is having a baby shower. I know, a baby shower on a Saturday night? It’s inhumane.”
I agree.
“Anyway”—she waves a hand—“It’s at the art institute. Daniel needs someone who’s good at mingling to be the ‘face of our division.’”
I bet. Daniel and “mingling” go together like foie gras and peanut butter. “You were going to be his date?”
