“I hope you’re hungry,” Forge mentioned casually, stealing another look at her from the other side of the car.
“Oh, I could probably eat.” Baloney. She was starved. Maybe even hungry enough to eat baloney, heaven help her.
Ororo’s toes were screaming in complaint, but she squelched the urge to slide her feet from her red and black Jimmy Choos to soothe the burning cramp. Nordstrom’s had a sale. They didn’t have her exact size. Ororo weighed the lesser of two evils and walked out of the store swinging the bag from her wrist.
If the way Forge’s eyes occasionally darted to her long, tapered calves was any indication, the shoes were working.
“Did you bring your Blackberry?”
“I never leave anywhere without it. Take away my oxygen, but expect to find my corpse still clutching that thing in my bony hand. A person needs to be prepared.” His smile was tidy but knowing. He gave a slight nod and glanced out the window.
“We’re here.” Ororo felt puzzled that Forge’s driver didn’t simply take them to the pier, figuring that every restaurant would have a view of the harbor, since that was a stipulation of their emails.
“Not to sound dense, Mr. Silvercloud…”
“I thought we decided on Forge.”
“Habit,” she admitted. She got back on topic. “But in the meantime, where is ‘here?’”
“Take a gander.” He rolled down the window smoothly. Its slow whirr provided fanfare for a sight that left her breathless.
Postrio. Four-star, heart-stoppingly expensive, and owned by Wolfgang Puck himself.
“Oh. Oh, my.”
“Tell me if you’ve been here already. We can go somewhere else, if you l-“
“Where should we park?”
“Henry, I’ll call for you in an hour.” His voice was crisp and authoritative. Ororo noticed he didn’t give an approximate time. Her mouth was still hanging open.
Her legs seemed to move of their own accord as they strolled inside. Forge was the perfect gentleman, holding doors and letting her walk ahead of him. She was staring stupidly at the original paintings and glass sculptures while tantalizing smells beckoned to her.
“Reservations, sir?”
“Two. Under Forge.” Ororo didn’t know anyone who used their first name to book a reservation somewhere that fancy. Obviously, there could be fifty “John’s” or “Bob’s” trying to barge their way in to a place owned by someone famous. But Forge. That was a name that opened doors.
This wasn’t pizza or fried squid by the pier. Remembering back to Logan’s idea of lunch, Ororo shuddered. Then she suppressed a pang of nostalgia.
She hadn’t tried to call him. It was still too raw. The message light on her phone was black. Forge, on the other hand, emailed her three more times to confirm date, time and their ride arrangements.
He took her coat and pulled out her chair.
“I can start the interview now while we wait for them to take our order.”
“Nonsense.” He waved over a server as soon as he made eye contact, nodding briefly. She watched, transfixed, as the man hurried over, already preparing his pad and pen.
“What can we do for you today, Mr. Silvercloud?”
“The special.”
“Which seafood would you recommend?” Ororo could have sworn she spied lamb on the sign in the lobby as the special. It wasn’t particularly her favorite. Forge watched her expectantly, measuring her.
“Oh, the prawns. You’ll love the prawns.” He rattled off a rapid-fire description of “lobster” and “curry” and “garlic” along with more elaborate cooking terms than she could count, or care to translate. She merely nodded.
“That sounds great.”
“We’d also like the pinot, and I don’t think my companion will argue with today’s dessert choice.” Ororo salivated. If she was put off by his assumption that he’d ordered wine for their “luncheon interview” she gave no sign.
Ororo was already scanning through her PDA with her stylus, clicking away until she found her .doc of questions she’d assembled, with a few additions made since their first appointment.
“Here we go.”
“Fire away. I’m an open book.”
“What kind of toys did you play with as a kid?”
“Excuse me?” He looked taken aback, setting down his water glass before it reached his lips.
“Toys. Sailboats, Matchbox cars?”
“Ah…hmmmm.” He looked thoughtful, and he raised one brow her way, telegraphing that she’d irked him, and amused him. “Well.”
“You couldn’t have had that deprived of a childhood.”
“No. I had toys. I just had other things to do. But I liked toys that did something. No little action figures. Linkin Logs were nice. Model cars that I could put together myself.”
“Word on the street is that you’re good at putting things together.” He offered her a quirk of his lips. His smile was far from full wattage.
“You could say that.” He nodded to her PDA. “You could print that.”
“I just might. Promise I won’t misquote you.”
“A promise is a promise,” he conceded with a brief nod.
“Pinky swear.”
“You have small hands.”
“Er…excuse me?”
“Your hands. Pinkies included.” Naturally she paused over her notes and stared down at her left hand.
“I always thought I had big hands.”
“No. Not for someone as tall as you are. What are you, about five nine-ish?”
“Five-eleven,” she admitted, cheeks flushing. “Moving on…”
“Shy?”
“No.”
“Good. You shouldn’t be.”
“Fine. I’m not.”
His scrutiny was making heat rise beneath her skin. His eyes focused on her so intently, taking in different details about her every time she picked up her stylus or her water glass. They both murmured their thanks to the server when he brought the house bread basket, but neither of them broke their gaze.
“How tall are you?” she prodded back.
“Six-two.” Rats. She loved tall men. Taller than she was, at any rate, and he easily fit the bill. He was making it hard for her to hold onto her previous resentment.
That, and the way that he smelled. He was wearing that addictive Burberry aftershave again, and he’d definitely shaved that day. The man had almost invisible pores and skin that made a baby’s backside feel like sandpaper.
“Did you have a happy childhood?” He shrugged, and his face clouded for a moment.
“I didn’t mind kissing it goodbye. Came from a broken home. No siblings. Moved around a lot with my father. Finally settled in Texas. He loved ranching, once he ‘found himself.’”
“That explains the accent. Where in Texas?”
“San Antonio.”
“You a Dallas fan?”
“Of course.”
“Where did you go to school?”
“West Central High.”
“Oh…sorry. College?”
“Duke.”
“Nice.” She was impressed.
“Then Dartmouth. I wanted a change of scene.”
“Transferred schools?”
“No. Grad school.”
“Master’s?”
“Two of them.”
“Oh. Wow.” She looked up from jotting it all down to stare at him in awe.
“Eh.” He shrugged. She almost liked him. Almost.
“Where did you study, Ororo?”
“Pardon?”
“You went to college?” All right. Her resentment was back, full force, until she noticed the mischief dancing in his eyes.
“No. Someone just handed me a typewriter on a dare after feeding me too much caffeine.” She paused to break apart a fresh-smelling loaf of bread and help herself to a piece. “NYU.”
“That explains the accent. You don’t sound like a typical Bay Area woman.”
“How is that?”
“Phrasing statements like a question.” He was kind enough to demonstrate. “So, I walking my dog yesterday? And, I went to Starbucks for a double latte? And I couldn’t find my wallet, right?’” He affected the faintly tilted vowels, making single syllables sound like several. Ororo snorted around the crumb of bread she popped into her mouth.
“Oh, that’s just not right.”
“Too affected?”
“No. Too true. You’re an evil, evil man.”
“Why?”
“I nearly aspirated the appetizer, and I haven’t even made it to the real questions.”
“I’ll try to curb myself.”
“Has anyone else ever tried to curb you? As a minority? What’s your heritage?”
“Yes. And yes. I’m Cheyenne; both of my parents were.”
“Oh.”
“I lost them both last year; Dad in a car accident, Mom to breast cancer.”
“I’m sorry. That’s a horrible loss.”
“I manage. It doesn’t hurt any less with time. It just hurts differently. My dad was a good man.”
“Did he offer you any insights that you live by personally?”
“Always look people in the eye. Always give a firm handshake when you enter and when you leave. Never leave people waiting…although I might have fallen short that time, in my office. I didn’t mean to be so hasty. I know you came a long way, and I’m sorry, Ororo.”
“That’s all right. We’ll keep that off the record. After all, you’re buying my silence with lunch.”
“Not that much silence. When did you start working for Cassandra?”
“After I finished my internship at the San Diego Mercury. I had a couple of bad months at a little quality management monthly after that. I half-figured that would kill my career as a copyeditor out of the gate.”
“What do you think Cassandra saw in you that made you the woman for the job?”
“I’m still figuring that out.”
“I could hazard a guess.”
“Shoot.” Talk about putting a woman on the spot…
“You’re blunt.”
“I’m hardly that!”
“No. You are. And that’s a compliment.”
“Convince me.” Ororo raised her brow and restrained herself from folding her arms beneath her breasts.
“You don’t seem like a woman who would shine someone on to stroke their ego.” His words recalled their argument. “Cassandra doesn’t like ass-kissers. She told me that was one of your better traits. You get the job done.”
“Cassandra talked to you about me?”
“Frequently.”
Now Ororo was afraid.
“And?”
“You’re worth her money.”
“She gets her money’s worth out of me more than you think.” If the dark circles under her eyes were any indication.
“You’re articulate and intelligent. Very elegant. Witty.” She hadn’t pried a laugh out of him yet, but his smile rose another notch.
The inevitable comparison to Logan socked her in the gut. She had laughed with him all the time.
But this wasn’t about Logan. This was about lunch. And work.
“You have your finger on the pulse of what other women want from life.”
“Ahhhh…that sounds suspiciously like publicist lingo. That’s one of Cassandra’s personal mottoes if I’ve ever heard one.” He looked guilty, and this time he stifled a low chuckle. He had a nice laugh.
“You’re beautiful.” His voice was so calm, so contemplative when he said it that she almost thought she heard him wrong. She nearly dropped her stylus.
“Cassandra doesn’t think that.”
“I wasn’t talking about Cassandra’s opinion this time.” Her hot cheeks were betraying her again. The rest of her body followed suit; her stomach was already flip-flopping and her pulse raced.
“We can wrap this up with a few more questions.”
“Take your time.” She watched his firm lips press themselves against his water glass, steaming it as he gulped down a few swallows; the cords of muscle in his throat were easily visible as they worked the fluid down. He stroked a hint of moisture from his mustache with his finger and thumb. “No rush.”
“No teleconferences?”
“Charity cleared my calendar.”
“How nice of her.” There was no love lost. Ororo loathed Forge’s secretary.
“She’s a soft touch, once you get to know her.”
So are jellyfish, before they sting. “I’ll keep that in mind, if I ever end up back in your neck of the woods.”
“Will you?”
“Excuse me?” she blurted.
“End up in my neck of the woods again?”
“Oh. Well.” So help her, she felt twelve. This was bad. Oh, so bad…
Why was it so easy for him to fluster her?
Logan never…scratch that. Yes, he had also made her feel flustered. When they first met. When she tried to please him.
Ororo made up her mind right then, right there: She wasn’t going to do back flips trying to impress Forge. He had to take her, or leave her. Period.
“I’m on deadline this week.” She was always on deadline. “And it was nice enough of you to take the time to meet with me today.”
“I take time out for the things and people I find important.” He reached for her Blackberry. “Hand it over.” His tone was imperious. He was straight-faced.
“Why?” And why was she passing it across the table.
“Because I’m turning it off.”
“Hey!”
“Don’t worry. I hit save.” He plucked the stylus from her hand, grazing her fingers. The brief contact made her shiver.
“On the record, you’ve interviewed me. Off the record, I want to see you again.”
“Not for business.”
“For a date. No notes. No press releases. No articles or teleconferences. I call you, or you call me, and we go out on a date.”
Just when things couldn’t get anymore awkward, the server arrived again with the wine. Forge nodded to the server, who poured about a tablespoon of wine into a crystal goblet. Forge eyed it, swirled it briefly and took a tentative sip. His approving nod and smile signaled him to pour each of them a glass before she could protest.
Really, she didn’t want to protest.
They’d passed “business lunch” two minutes into the interview.
Ororo tasted the wine, watching Forge over the rim of her glass. It was slightly tart as she sucked a droplet from her upper lip. His eyes dilated with the gesture.
“The wine’s fine!” he announced easily.
The server scurried off, promising that their food would be arriving any time.
“I’m starving,” Ororo admitted to him once they were alone.
“Are you thirsty?”
“Why?”
“There’s something appealing about watching you take a drink.” His eyes flicked to her hand, still toying with goblet’s stem. “Do it again?”
~0~
“How did it go, duckie?”
“Huh?”
“The interview. How did it go?”
“Oh. That. Right. Fine.” Every other step of Ororo’s aching feet was punctuated by her response.
“Did he tell you what you needed to know?”
“More or less.”
“Oooookaaaaayyyy,” Betsy drawled, watching her friend putter around her cubicle and put away her purse. “What’s the ‘more’ part?”
“Bets, he asked me on a date.”
“Wait…he WHAT?”
“A date. A real, honest to goodness date.”
“This was an interview! This was supposed to be business!”
“I don’t work with him,” Ororo argued.
“I know, but still…you just met him.”
“I had ‘just met’ Vic when he and I started dating.”
“Look how that turned out, sweet.”
“Oh, don’t go on,” Ororo pleaded irritably.
“What’s that smell?”
“What smell?”
“That funny little…chocolatey smell. And is that wine?”
“Oh. Er. Well.”
“You had WINE?”
“Just one glass. He had his driver take us to ““
“He has a DRIVER?”
“It was nice. We didn’t have to worry about tipping a valet to park it, he just had him pick us up from Postrio ““
“POSTRIO???” Betsy was more and more aghast by the second. Ororo felt a funny little sense of triumph.
“It was really nice.” Ororo’s voice turned slightly dreamy.
“You had chocolate and wine with a steel magnate at Wolfgang Puck’s restaurant, and all you can say is ‘it was really nice?’ Kittens are nice. Fuzzy socks are nice. But POSTRIO???” Betsy shook her head. “Hello, gross understatement.”
“It wasn’t chocolate. It was a cappuccino brownie sundae.”
“Oh, my good Lord.” Betsy fanned herself.
“Did I mention that he smells good? The man smells good,” Ororo included absently. She began checking her emails one last time. It wasn’t time to leave yet, but she wanted to take the rest of her work home. She’d never be able to concentrate stuck in her tiny cube for the rest of the afternoon, even though it was only two.
“So now what?”
“I have to write up the piece. I have everything in here.” She patted her Blackberry carrying case.
“Likely story. Cassandra’s on the war path. If you want to get that article done, not go home and plan your wardrobe for that so-called “non-business related date,” then you should stay put.”
The woman had a point. Ororo fumed, then sighed.
“Fine,” she muttered sourly.
“Cappuccino brownie sundae?” Betsy repeated, nearly drooling.
“Oh, Bets, you haven’t lived.”
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