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“That’s one way to put it.”
I shake my head. “Sorry. I never really fit into the world of Manhattan as well as my ex-husband had hoped. And by Manhattan I mean, very specifically, his social circle.”
Isaac nods. “It can be a hard one to crack.”
“Yes,” I say, and force my voice to lighten. “Do you know why they’re so obsessed with monograms?”
“Monograms?”
“Yes,” I say. I need to steer this conversation away from me and my divorce again. We end up there more often than I’d like, and I have the suspicion I’m the one who leads us there. The thought makes me feel pathetic. “They’re everywhere here. It feels like every home we went to for dinner would have a couple monogram proudly embroidered on the guest towels.”
He runs a hand along his jaw. “I think all the Winter towels are monogrammed. In the hotels, I mean. With the W.”
I laugh. “Of course they are.”
“It’s a personal touch.”
“Yes, very personal,” I say, and take a long sip of my wine. “That’s the personal service for you.”
“Exactly. Some customers say that’s important when choosing which hotel to stay at.”
“So I’ve heard,” I say. “Personally, I only look at the minibar.”
He chuckles. “Does it need to be stocked with Chardonnay?”
“Five bottles, minimum,” I say.
“Speaking of,” he murmurs, and nods to my glass. “Time for a refill?”
My second glass of wine turns into a third, and his glass of brandy turns into two. And as we talk, he angles his body toward mine, and I realize a number of things about this man.
He’s loyal to the company down to his very bones. His father is still on the board and he fully expects his brother’s children to run it one day, if, as he puts it, they’re not complete idiots.
A family legacy.
I also realize he truly does nothing but work. No wife and no girlfriend. And I wonder why that is, and if he’s ever tried, and if so with whom. The man in front of me doesn’t seem like he was made to live alone. No one is.
He’s a good conversationalist. A great listener, and when he comments on my stories, it’s tinged with a dry wit that surprises me.
I learn that his younger brother is part of the venture capitalist firm Acture, who owns and controls Exciteur.
That little factoid briefly blows my mind. I try very hard to keep my face professional, and years of training helps me succeed. The people who bought Exciteur had always been nameless and faceless in my mind. A vague and insanely wealthy conglomerate that likely had presidents on speed dial and four personal assistants each.
“Is that why you hired Exciteur?” I ask. My voice comes out casual, but my insides are anything but. That’s why he’s a special friend of the CEO.
Getting this project right isn’t just a matter of professional pride. It’ll end my career if I get it wrong.
“Yes,” he says. “It’s closer to mixing business with pleasure than I’d prefer, though. The two don’t mesh well.”
“That seems like a paradox, coming from the man who runs a family company.”
He chuckles. “Oh, I’m aware of the irony. Trust me, managing the family is often far more difficult than managing the hotel.”
I run a finger along the rim of my wineglass. “You must have…insistentfamily members.”
“I do,” he says.
I should end this, should excuse myself and call it a night, but I don’t want to stop talking to him. Tonight his handsomeness is approachable, the CEO facade down somewhat, and an intimacy has settled over our corner of the hotel bar.
