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“Your rooftop restaurant is booked forweeksin advance.”
“It’s popular, yes.”
“Your chef has a Michelin star!”
“He does.” I pull out a chair and sit down opposite her. “Want to meet him later, too?”
She snorts. “Now you’re just showing off.”
“Maybe a little,” I say, and find that it’s true. I want to paint over all her memories of this place with new ones. Better ones. “Tell me about the ideas you’ve been brainstorming.”
“They’re not quite ready yet,” she says, but excitement flashes in her eyes. “But maybe I can tease a few…”
“I promise I’ll act surprised at the pitch.”
Her lips tug into a genuine smile. “Thanks. Well… I’ve really loved seeing the Art Deco details here today. And I’m thinking maybe we could use that as the inspiration for the logo.”
I nod. “Go on.”
She does just that, throwing out ideas faster than I can follow. This is her forte, I realize, watching her in action. Ideation. Creativity. If she can successfully pair that with a sense of business, well… she’s in the exact right job.
The food arrives from Room, and Andrew Chiu is as talented as always. The ceviche melts on the tongue, the spice burns, and all of it is made considerably better by the company.
It takes me fifteen seconds to see how much Sophia loves the food. She tastes every single dish like she’s reviewing the restaurant.
I look from her to the dish she’s sampling and can’t help but smile at the thirdaaahshe lets out.
She sees it and stops, fork in midair. “What?”
“You’re enjoying the dinner.”
“Well, yes.” She dabs at her mouth with a napkin. “I’ve wanted to go to Room for ages but never managed to get a table.”
“Percy never took you?” I ask.
The room falls quiet, but I hear the echo of my question. Fuck. I’ve broken the one request she asked of me. “Never mind. You asked me to forget how we first met.”
A crooked smile curves her lips. “Perhaps that was a lot to ask for. It was pretty memorable, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” I say. “Beautiful women don’t cry in my lobby every night.”
She looks down at her food. “Probably a good thing, or your Tripadvisor score would tank.”
“Yes, or we’d start attracting a very peculiar clientele.”
She shakes her head, laughing. “The indignity! You’d never get the WASPs back.”
I take a long sip of my wine. “The WASPs,” I repeat.
She looks over at me, a brief flash of regret in her eyes. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Why not? It’s not untrue.”
“Perhaps not,” she says, and leans back in her chair. I get the feeling she’s weighing her next words carefully. “It wasn’t meant to be disparaging, but it is a core feature of your clientele. At least for the New York location.”
“You’re concerned,” I say, “because you consider me a member of that group, and I might have been offended.”
She sighs. “Yes.”
