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Callisto pulls into a parking garage in the Garden District. This is nothing like what I expected. It’s a corner building, gray, with lots of windows, much like a warehouse. He parks on the top level of the garage, just past a security gate. We take an elevator to the top floor of the building. Of course, it’s the penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows make up an entire wall. Sliding glass doors lead onto a terrace overlooking downtown. The Crescent City Connection is currently illuminated by a halo of yellow-orange orbs, making the bridge an absolutely beautiful vision at night.
The essence of his office overflows into his home. Everything is open and crisp. Light gray walls with exposed brick, kitchen cabinets a rich mocha with black granite countertops, and the floors a polished cherry wood. He leads me to the center of the room to a large U-shaped, white leather sectional.
I take a seat on the massive piece of furniture, feeling completely out of my element. My eighteen-hundred square foot patio home would probably fit on his terrace, and my slip-covered, linen sofa from Pottery Barn feels like a bean bag chair compared to this. While my house looks like something plucked straight off someone’s Pinterest board, Callisto’s is picture-perfect ready for Architectural Digest. Yet, here I am, in my pink sweater and light gray leggings, plopped down on his sofa like I belong here.
He sits beside me. “Are you comfortable?” he asks as he watches me shift from one position to another.
“I’m adjusting,” I answer truthfully.
He smirks and scoots closer to me. “Should I get you some wine?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Don’t need it.”
I do. But there’s no way I’m telling him that.
He raises a brow and smiles half-heartedly. “Well then, let the inquisition begin.”
“You make it sound like a bad thing.”
“Have you ever known anyone that enjoyed being questioned?” he asks, matter-of-fact.
“No, I guess not.”
He stares at me in silence while we both wait for me to say something. This was my idea, after all. I’m the one with the questions. I’m the one who can’t just let things go. So, here goes nothing.
“The other day at the restaurant, there was a man in a black BMW. Do you know him?” I ask.
There. It’s out. I said it.
“Yes.”
Just, yes. Nothing more.
Okay, Makenna. Now what?
I shift positions again and stare out the window hoping to find my next question spelled out in the city lights.
“So, you know Jeeves?”
His eyes grow wide. “The butler from the TV show? Doesn’t everyone?”
I probably should have put more thought into that second question. I shift gears and take a different route. This is stupid, Makenna. What are you doing?
“Have you ever been to my job?” I ask. “The one I have now. Not the restaurant. Obviously.” Were you the guy in the hoodie?
“Yes.”
Although he’s answering my questions, he’s not answering my questions, which I get the feeling is something he’s proud of, so I take a moment to think of something not so open-ended.
“Why?” I fold my arms across my lap and cross my legs while I wait for him to answer.
“You know why.”
He knows. He knows I know.
He inches over on the sofa until our thighs touch, then he takes my left hand from my lap. His eyes examine my ring finger, finding it bare, then move to meet mine. If heartbeats were soundwaves, the noise of mine would be deafening.
“Do you make a habit of having men in suits hand deliver obituaries to women in parking lots?” I ask, getting right to the point.
