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“Why did you decide on international relations?”
“I guess I just wanted to make my mark on the broader world. I was raised to be good at diplomacy, so it seemed like a natural transition. And I love going to different places and meeting a lot of people.”
He chuckles to himself. “Sounds like me. Except instead of being an intelligent, competent, educated woman, I’m… well, me. That’s got to irk you at least a little, that you’re working for me rather than me working for you? You’re the more qualified one.”
He flashes that winning smile, which warms me up like always. I laugh.
“Maybe it irks me but probably less than you think. You’re good at your job, Caesar. And it’s an honor to work for you.” I bow my head exaggeratedly so he doesn’t take my compliment too seriously. I don’t know how much of that is the wine talking anyway.
“I admire your diplomacy. I could learn from it. Another glass?” He pours me some more wine, we order Chinese food, and we talk long after we’re finished with our takeout. Every once in a while, lightning streaks across the sky.
He asks deep, intentional questions and listens for my answers. It’s late by the time the storm is over. He orders a car, says a short but sincere goodbye, and I walk him out to the elevator.
I’m left sitting in my now-strangely silent living room, staring at an empty bottle of wine and takeout containers, wondering what the hell just happened.
7
CAESAR
Since going to Vivienne’s for dinner yesterday, I have more questions than answers. I practically had to force her to let me take her home, but after a while, she seemed to enjoy herself.
I pictured coming home to her, and even earlier in the office, I wondered if it would be an austere experience. But the warmth of our conversation showed me that she’s great company once she gets comfortable.
Marcus’s idea keeps tickling the back of my brain. I want it to stop, especially the more I learn about Vivienne. But I’m not sure. She should have an opportunity to enter the world of foreign affairs on her own terms.
On the other hand, what better way to enter the diplomacy world than by becoming a princess and wife of a diplomat? She could go to her own events, be her own boss, have her own secretary, and make a difference. A title comes with power. I know she would handle it responsibly.
“Vivienne, would you come in here, please?”
As she enters the room, I watch her walk. I notice the grace in her gait, how she floats from place to place like a swan.
“You needed something, sir?” Her tone is formal after last night, more distant. We had a nice time, but maybe she’s rethinking it. I did, after all, twist her arm to come by.
Her curly hair bounces, and I never noticed the dimple on her left cheek. The arc of her neck and the slope of her shoulder call to mind a Venetian sculpture.
“Yes, do you have the numbers for the Keffries Gala? The King expects me to host it in his absence.”
“Certainly, sir.” As she leaves, I hear the rustling of her practical black skirt, her signature color.
Sitting at her computer, she tucks a pencil behind her ear while she taps away on the keyboard. She puts on a pair of glasses and then takes them off to chew on the earpiece. She prints out a spreadsheet and lays it on my desk.
I know I’ve disrupted her to-do list for the day, but even so, she is perfectly unruffled. I’m curious about what musical tastes she’ll share.
She has loads of other work to do, but I keep giving her tasks that will bring her in for conversations. I wait for her to register any sign of displeasure, whether through a roll of her eyes or a little scoff, but she’s pure agreeableness.
I have her sit at the low table in the corner with me. I notice her slipping off her shoes and tucking her feet underneath her on the sofa, adding intimacy to the moment. Through her stockings, I notice an odd flash of red.
Yes, she mentioned yesterday that her favorite color is red. I imagine her in a red blouse that complements her eyes perfectly. Or maybe a red nightie that she wears when no one is around. I find myself getting excited by the notion and quickly suppress it. But somewhere underneath that serious exterior is a woman who might enjoy some fun.
As soon as she sits back down at her desk, I press the button on the intercom I rarely use. “Coffee, please. Cream, two sugars.”
With no hint of discernible frustration, she rises from her desk and prepares the coffee in a fluid motion. Pouring a cup for me and one for herself, she puts cream and sugar into one and leaves the other black.
I drink black coffee in most places, but I always find it too strong for me here. Now I know she likes it black as well, and it only adds to her charm.
After Vivienne returns to her desk, I overhear Bree coming in to talk to her about a situation with a caterer. She patiently responds, taking time to formulate thoughtful, helpful responses.
After a few minutes, Bree laughs at something Vivienne says, and I wish I had caught it. When Bree leaves, Vivienne returns to her work.
