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He says it like it’s the gravest of errors, and I smile. “Do you have a lot of work tonight? We could have dinner, if not.”
Victor’s hand flattens on the marble counter. Silence stretches on, my offer hanging in the air. He could shut that door. He’d be right to.
“Sure,” he says.
“Okay. Good.” I flit up from my chair and get our glasses, a sudden bout of nerves flooding my system. “Doesn’t the food smell delicious?”
“It does.”
“It’s almost done, too,” Bonnie adds. She plates it for us and I grab a seat at the table opposite Victor. He keeps his eyes on his phone, but as I watch, he does the most extraordinary thing.
He turns it on silent and slides it into the pocket of his pants.
He sees me looking. “Anything wrong?”
I shake my head. “No.”
The plates appear in front of us and Bonnie says bon appetit. “Thank you,” I tell her, and I mean it. “This looks incredible.”
She wipes her hands on her apron. “There’s parmesan in the fridge and a bottle of red that would work great. Help yourselves.”
“Thank you,” Victor says.
Bonnie nods again and as she leaves the kitchen, I catch the curve of a smile on her lips. Wine in the fridge, huh?
Victor uncorks the wine with a practiced move. The muscles in his forearms flex with each pull on the cork.
Damn shirtsleeves.
“Cecilia?”
“Yes?”
“How is your start-up coming along?”
It takes me a moment to gather my wits. But when I do, I launch into a description, and pray he’s not deducting this from our monthly mentoring sessions.
“I’ve spoken to some personal assistants, actually. People I know through work or school. Several are interested in joining. It’s flexible, you know? They can sign up to do as many hours as they’d like to in a given week.”
He nods. “It’s as flexible from the clients perspective as it is from the assistants. That’s good, Myers.”
“Thank you. The thing I’m struggling with at the moment is web design.”
“Tell me.”
Victor listens to my problems, drinking from his glass and digging into his food. He looks like he usually does at his business meetings, complete with the furrow in his brow.
He remarks positively on one change and critically on two points. After that, we fall silent, the only sound in the kitchen our cutlery against the plates.
I clear my throat. “My mother is coming to town in a month or two.”
“Is she?”
“She doesn’t know I’m married.”
“Quite a change,” Victor says. “Do you plan on telling her?”
“Yes. I don’t think I can get around it.”
