“The marriage,” she murmurs. “Well, I do have some questions. What about—oh. Hello.”
The waiter gives us an apologetic smile and asks for our orders. I give him both of ours, asking for a bottle of the 2006 Merlot.
We’ll need more than just a glass for this.
“Your question,” I prompt her.
Cecilia’s cheeks heat up. They do that often, it seems. Another thing I hadn’t noticed. “You’re very private, but now you want us to live together. How is that going to work?”
I resist the urge to sigh. “Like I said, you’ll have your space and I’ll have mine. The apartment is big enough for both of us. It’ll be fine.”
It’ll have to be, because I don’t have a choice. Besides, all we need is that she’s officially registered at my address. I can always sleep at a hotel if it gets too much.
Exiled from my own apartment. Christ.
“Would I move my stuff in?”
“The things you need, yes. But the place is fully furnished. I’ll pay for warehousing the rest of your stuff for the year.”
Cecilia nods. Her hands curve around the stem of her wineglass. Slender, pale fingers and sheer nail polish. No rings on any of her fingers.
“How will we explain this?”
“Explain?”
“Yes, to people around us.”
I shrug. “There’s no one in my life who will ask questions. You can explain it however you like to yours.”
Her gaze locks on mine, eyes widening. “Really?”
“Yes. The contract specifies nothing about secrecy. You can tell your friends it’s a marriage of convenience, if you like. Doesn’t bother me.”
“Well, that’s not… okay then. I guess I’ll see when I get to that. It’s not a simple thing to explain.”
I nod, though it seems easy enough. Unorthodox, sure, but a business transaction after all.
“People at the company might gossip.”
I shrug again. “Only if they find out. Besides, none of them will say anything to me.”
“No. No, I suppose that’s true.” A half-smile plays at her lips.
It bothers me. “What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing,” she says, shaking her head. “It’s just… I didn’t know you were aware of your reputation.”
“My reputation?”
“Well… people are afraid of you.”
I snort. “Only because I can have them fired.”
“Yes,” she says. “Only because of that little detail.”
When the food arrives, my beef looks as good as it always does. I’m here often enough that they don’t have to ask for my preferences anymore.
“Fresh parmesan?” the waiter asks. Cecilia nods and we both watch as he grates a fresh block over her plate. They exchange smiles when he’s done, like he’s just climbed Mt Everest instead of doing his well-compensated job.