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Wedding. 1 p.m. Office of the City Clerk. Attendees: Cecilia Myers (confirmed), Victor St. Clair (pending).
I tick the box to confirm my attendance. RSVPing to my own nuptials. It almost makes me smile.
Then my calendar pings again.
Pre-wedding dinner. 7 pm. Salt. Attendees: Cecilia Myers (confirmed), Victor St. Clair (pending).
I lift my phone and press the single digit that connects me to my assistant.
“Yes?”
“Come in here,” I say.
The office door opens moments later and Miss Myers walks in. Her hair is in a low ponytail today. Gray pants and matching blazer. She looks like an assistant.
My fiancée, ladies and gentlemen.
“What do you need?”
“You scheduled a pre-wedding dinner,” I say.
Her hands twist in front of her, but she meets my eyes. “We need to talk.”
“About what? There’s no agenda attached to this meeting.”
“Not about business. About us. We’re practically strangers.”
I frown. “We’re not.”
“What’s my first name?”
“Cecilia,” I say. It feels odd on my tongue.
“Where do I live?”
“From the fifteenth onward, you’ll be living on 5th Avenue. With me.”
She shakes her head, and there’s a fire in her eyes. It’s the same one she’d showed when she negotiated with me. “I’m not marrying you like this. We need to sit down. Talk about the year ahead. About expectations and, and… rules. Limits. You can afford to take one night off work.”
I lean back in my chair. Perhaps I can, if she’ll show me more of this side of her. “Fine.”
“Fine,” she echoes. “There’s nothing else?”
“No.”
She nods and turns, and my eyes do something they’ve never done before. They trace the lines of her body and imagine it beneath the fabric. Does she have dimples at the base of her spine? Her pants are loose, but they stretch over a firm ass as she walks.
The door closes behind her and I stare at it for a few seconds. Miss Myers.
I must be losing my mind.
* * *
Salt is my standard restaurant for business meetings. The kind that are better had outside of office environments, where a glass of wine or four butters up clients, suppliers and everything in between.
I don’t know whether it’s funny or ironic that Cecilia booked Salt for our talk, but I’m tiring of answering emails on my phone while I wait for her.
“Another gin and tonic, sir?” the hostess asks.
