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David
My phone buzzes while I shave. I tap it with my pinky finger to bring up the email.
FROM: [email protected]
Subject: Dinner attire
David,
What is the dress code tonight?
Anica Kasan
I really need to give her my phone number. That could have been a text message. Setting down my razor, I pick up my phone to quickly type out a response to have her wear something similar to her dress for her first night here. Tucking my phone into my pocket, I keep shaving, focusing on getting ready.
I check my watch as I fix it on my wrist. I told Anica to be ready in five minutes. Pocketing my phone and wallet, I stride out of my bedroom, and my eyes land on Anica standing beside the front door. Waiting for me. I guess she took my email to heart. She’s wearing an incredibly similar dress to the one thatshe wore to dinner the other night. Only instead of black, this one is bright red.
Its rounded neckline sits below her collarbones, with tight sleeves to her elbows. It’s fitted, but not tight, all the way to her knees. There is a small slit up the back, enough that she can walk comfortably, and she’s wearing her black kitten heels and carrying her black satin clutch from the other night.
Her hair is braided off her face and down her back, and apart from a fine gold chain bracelet; she’s not wearing any jewelry at all. Not even the gold stud earrings she wore to dinner the other night and to the office on her first day. She looks nice. Understated but nice.
Crossing to her, I help her into her cream-colored trench coat and place my hand on her lower back as I guide her out of the penthouse. Once we’re in the car, Anica looks over at me expectantly.
“Where are we having dinner?” she asks, looking both excited and apprehensive.
“Max’s place. He has a condo on Fifth Avenue.”
Her eyes widen, and I bite back a smirk. She doesn’t ask who Max is, so either she already knew which of my cousins lived here in New York, or she went back to her room to do some Googling.
Anica’s head whips around, her eyes finding the buildings out the car window, still wide – I can see her reflection in the window. She doesn’t speak for the rest of the journey, but presses her open palm against her thigh. I think it’s so that she doesn’t fidget nervously.
I have the sudden urge to reach across and squeeze her hand reassuringly and chase it away with a frown. I don’t hold hands. I don’t try to comfort people. Especially not ones that I barely tolerate. Shoving my hands in my pockets before I do something weird, I focus on trying to picture what Max’s date is going to look like. She will probably be the complete opposite of Anica.
The car pulls up outside Max’s building, and I slide out after Anica as the doorman holds her door open. Anica tips her head back to look up at the building, which couldn’t look less like my glass and steel building if it tried. I place my hand on the small of her back to guide her up to Max’s place. The position of my hand alerts me to the fact that she’s taking a series of deep breaths. The woman is a little strange.
I raise my hand to hammer on the door, announcing our arrival, and Anica smooths her skirt with slightly shaking hands. Huh. I don’t remember if she had shaking hands when she met me. Should I take that as an ego hit? I can’t dwell too thoroughly on that weird thought because Max opens the door with a grin and does a double take as he slowly peruses Anica from head to toe. I bite back a smirk. Yeah. I’m pretty sure that’s what I did when I first met her.
“Anica, this is my cousin, Max Westerhaven. Max, this is Anica Kasan. She’s a designer for Haven Enterprises.”
Max automatically holds out a hand, and Anica shakes it gently. “Thank you for inviting us for dinner.”
Max’s eyebrows shoot up toward his floppy hairline, and he clears his throat. I told her we were having dinner with Max tonight. I didn’t tell her he invited us… what a strange assumption.
“Glad you could make it,” he manages to choke out, stepping back and gesturing for us to come in. Anica glances around with interest at the apartment, her eyes lingering on the full bookshelves lining the wall of the dining area, and the guitars hung around the large flat screen TV in the lounge area. Max has an interesting taste in décor.
“Come on through to the terrace,” Max calls over his shoulder as he leads us through the kitchen and out the double doors, to a view of Washington Square Park.
As I suspected, he’s got a supermodel waiting. The tall, willowy woman stands, clutching her champagne glass, extending her hand and leaning in for her cheek to be kissed. She’s gorgeous and looks incredibly familiar, though I can’t place her.
“This is Mandi,” Max introduces her. He doesn’t say it, I bet that’s Mandi with an “i”. She has that kind of vibe.
When Mandi turns her eyes to Anica, they widen almost imperceptibly and dart between the two of us. Anica doesn’t seem to notice, too busy smiling warmly and holding her hand out to Mandi, who takes it, looking somewhat bemused.
“You’re the face of Covergirl,” Anica tells her. Mandi arches one elegantly sculpted brow and smiles condescendingly at Anica.
“I know.”
