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“You’re sure you don’t want to come?” Whitney offers, glancing at me as we exit the elevator and make our way across the lobby.
I’m used to the heads turning to watch the girl on my arm walk by. The more satisfying moment comes directly after, when the men see whose arm she’s on and immediately divert their gaze. It’s the same motion every time: appreciative glance, acknowledgement of my presence, a widening of eyes, then a chin jerk down and to the side as something on the floor suddenly becomes extremely interesting.
“Maybe next time,” I say, my typical response whenever she invites me to Danza. I think it best that I remind the Marchettis of my presence in their territory as little as possible, and somehow, enjoying their nightclub seems like the opposite of inconspicuous. “I have business to attend to tomorrow.” And I do. We have a big shipment coming in that I plan to oversee.
“Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
I click the key fob as we enter the parking garage, and the doors of my car glide open.
“How’s business?” Whitney asks as we settle in and my lamborghini’s motor purrs to life.
“Good. We are expanding again. Our partners in Russia have increased their shipment requests considerably.” My mind shifts to my trip last week and the rigorous negotiations involved in brokering the new volume they’re expecting.
“Well, that’s good.”
The car falls silent, and I’m intensely aware of the typical sharp or witty observation Whitney would normally insert at this point. When I glance at her from the corner of my eye, she’s facing the windshield, her expression carefully neutral, her gaze trained on the road. Perhaps she has something else on her mind, or maybe this is the consequence of the lesson I was so determined to drive home last weekend. I should be pleased that she seems to be clearer on the bounds of our relationship, so I brush it off.
Dinner at Sepia is elegant, delicious, and somehow entirely bland. The conversation skips lightly across surface-level topics as we discuss everything from the seasonal menu’s excellent combination of flavors and how the Michelin-star chef has outdone himself to what Whitney’s school curriculum will look like for fall semester of her junior year, even the mild weather Chicago’s been having this past week. It’s entirely pleasant, and Whitney seems to be in a good mood, her eyes bright, her smile open. But without her biting humor and observations that keep me on my toes, it feels like one of the hundreds of vanilla dinners I’ve done with countless shallow women before her. And her careful restraint tells me just how good a student she is. Perhaps my treat for her is more necessary than I first thought.
When we’ve eaten our fill and head on to the surprise I have waiting for Whitney, I let the car fill with silence, appreciating it over the small talk we’ve maintained with a surgeon’s precision. And as we pull up to the front entrance of the Civic Opera House, I know I made the right choice. Whitney’s kohl-lined eyes widen, and her polite smile spreads into an enthusiastic grin.
“Are we going to seeDracula?” she demands, spinning to face me.
I raise an eyebrow, my lips pressing together to hide my amusement at her enthusiasm. “Maybe.”
“Oh my god, we are!” Her eyes flicker with fresh excitement.
Leaving my car with the valet, I offer my arm to Whitney and guide her toward our box seats. A bottle of champagne already waits for us, and we settle in as Whitney’s excitement hums from her body, leaving her toned arms tense, her hands gripping the railing edge.
“I’ve been dying to see this show all year!” she gushes, turning to accept a glass of champagne that I pour and pass to her.
I chuckle quietly. “I know.”
Whitney’s cheeks color slightly, and the appreciation that flickers in her eyes seems to soften her expression. “Thank you,” she murmurs.
“You’re welcome.” Now would be the time if I wanted to apologize for my actions last weekend, but the thought of saying the words seems to cement my mouth closed. Such simple words, and yet, I find they taste bitter on my tongue. Hopefully, she can recognize my gesture for what it’s intended to be because I can’t bring myself to say I’m sorry.
I think she does. As the lights dim and the curtain rises, Whitney seems to relax toward me, releasing a tension I hadn’t realized she was carrying before. As the performance starts, I find it hard to focus on the dancers moving across the stage–no matter the drama of their motion or the intensity of the music. My eyes keep wandering to the girl beside me, the way her full lips part slightly with wonder, her deep brown eyes intent upon the scene below. She’s riveted by the ballet, and a deep sense of satisfaction fills me to know I can bring her this level of enjoyment.
Several times throughout the performance, Whitney catches me watching her, and each time our eyes meet, a crackling anticipation ripples between us. Whatever my overly assertive lesson might have done to our depth of conversation, it hasn’t changed the inexplicable attraction between us. Suddenly, I can’t wait to get her back to her room.
When the curtain finally drops and the audience stands to applaud, Whitney does as well, the open expression of awe giving her face a breathtaking glow. She claps enthusiastically, stepping up to the balcony edge as the curtain rises once more for the dancers to offer a gracefully choreographed final bow. I follow suit, though I could hardly say I followed the storyline well enough to have appreciated the performance. Still, I enjoyed the show just as thoroughly.
“That was stunning. I think I have a new favorite ballet,” Whitney gushes as we leave the theater. She’s practically skipping beside me despite the height of her heels, though her arm is wrapped around mine securely, so I can stop her from falling if need be.
“It was a good surprise, then?” I ask, the corners of my lips curling with amusement.
Whitney gives my arm a gentle tug, and I stop to face her.
“The best,” she says sincerely, her brown eyes lighter than I’ve ever seen them before.
“Hmm. Good.” I hook a finger beneath her chin and lean in to press a rare kiss to her captivating lips. Normally, I try to keep casual signs of affection to a minimum. But the deep crimson color she’s wearing tonight makes her lips more enticing than usual, and I can’t resist the temptation.
A jolt of electricity zings between us, and I release her a moment later. She stands in stunned silence for a moment, and I flash her a self-satisfied smile before turning to guide her to my waiting car. I speed down the streets of Chicago back to Whitney’s apartment, my anticipation burning away my self-restraint. And as we ride the elevator back up to her room a short time later, the silence that surrounds us is charged with a new kind of tension than had been between us at the start of the night.
I want nothing more than to pin her to the wall and put that thigh-high slit in her dress to good use. But I don’t. The kiss I stole already crossed the line I’m trying very hard to keep in place. Because I need to maintain more distance from this girl emotionally. She has a way of opening hidden doors in my heart, and I’ve been too lax in letting her explore lately.
It’s my job to keep things strictly sexual and fun in a physical way. I’ve apologized as best I can for letting my emotions get involved last weekend. Now I need to bring us back to our original arrangement. And I have a scene in mind for tonight that will help separate our emotions from the equation.
