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“The formal dining room is a bit... formal, I think,” he suggested, and I heartily agreed.
We talked, mostly about work and how things were going there. It was a safe topic, one that wasn’t too personal for friendly chatter, nothing that would push us into real “getting to know you” territory.
Unfortunately, some personal details were unavoidable. There were pictures on the wall, of his daughter I presumed. I tried not to look at those.
He must have known that I’d been rattled by his demeanor in my apartment the night before, because near the end of the meal he said, “Sophie, I want to apologize if I’ve... crossed any boundaries with you. Last night I wasn’t myself.”
“It’s okay. I just... you said something.” I stopped myself. “Maybe this isn’t the right time to talk about it.”
He smiled sadly. “I’ve learned my lesson when it comes to relationships. If there’s anything you can’t talk about, that’s likely the thing you should be talking about.”
“I bow to your painful experience,” I said, trying to make light of the situation and feeling it fall flat between us. So clearly, joking about his divorce was a bad choice. “When you were... high on Klonopin last night, you said that you missed me, and you weren’t talking about the trip.”
He nodded, and he didn’t meet my eyes. It was a defense mechanism, I realized, and my stomach dropped. When he answered, his voice was uncharacteristically quiet and serious, without any hint of the playful teasing I was used to. “I wish things had happened differently between us. As I’ve gotten to know you over these past few weeks, I can’t help but think that we missed an amazing opportunity with each other.”
“Or not.” I dabbed the corner of my mouth with my napkin. “I don’t think I’m a fully formed person yet, imagine me six years ago.”
“True. And perhaps we wouldn’t be sitting here now.” He regarded me with his unreadable half-smile that I will probably never figure out.
My heart was racing, and for entirely different reasons than my earlier excitement. This was heavier than I’d imagined the night would be. I was caught between being afraid of what I was feeling and being afraid of what he was feeling. The lack of control was unsettling.
He reached across the table and took my hand in his. I felt like I might get up and bolt, until he linked our little fingers together in the classic pinkie-swear pose. “Let’s make a pact. No matter what happens with our current arrangement, we remain on friendly terms. I don’t ever want to go six years without seeing you again.”
There was that sneaky knot in my chest again, the one I never realized was there until it eased slightly at something he said or did. “I can live with that.”
There was a long moment between us, one that had begun in comfortable silence then ended with an awkward clearing of the throat on Neil’s part.
The mood needed a reset button. “So, any big after dinner plans?” I slipped my shoe off under the table and ran my silk-covered toes up his ankle.
He raised an eyebrow. “As a matter of fact, I have to give you your present.”
I pushed back my plate. “I am always ready for presents.”
* * * *
We didn’t clear the table before he led me to the master bedroom. He turned up the dimmer switch, bathing the walls in a soft golden glow from the inset lights.
“Wow.” His bedroom that was arguably as large as my apartment.
Huge windows displayed a spectacular view of Central Park. One wall was entirely dominated by dark wood shelving. This was clearly where all the books that didn’t have matching leather bound covers lived, and in the middle of them was the biggest bed I’d ever seen in my entire life.
“Some headboard.” I whistled to signify how impressed I was as I walked toward the shelves. I spied a biography of John Adams beside a copy of Hugo’s Les Miserables. They both had creases in their spines.
I may have felt a swoon coming on.
“I told you I read,” he said defensively as he moved through the seating area in front of the marble fireplace. It was definitely a smaller hearth than the one in the living room, but still... the man had a fireplace in his bedroom. And couches and chairs that I was pretty sure were antiques. He disappeared through a door that was the same dark wood as everything else in the room, and called for me to follow him.
It was a walk-in closet. Wait, strike that. It was an honest-to-god dressing room. Suit jackets and shirts hung in order of color and texture. There were drawers everywhere, cedar-lined, judging by the crisp scent in the air. Illuminated glass shelves displayed watches and cufflinks that each probably cost more than a year of my salary. Further back was a collection of shoes that cemented my opinion of Neil as some kind of male Carrie Bradshaw, and a doorway that led to the master bath. The floor in here was herringbone patterned wood parquet, but forced air vents heated it at foot level. For bare feet.
