I don’t. It doesn’t look appetizing in the least, with little particles swirling around.
“I do,” I say, and that’s when I know I should go upstairs. Because she is nothing like the assistant I thought I had, nothing like the Miss Myers who answered my commands and never spoke back, who wore too-loose pencil skirts and had her hair in prim ponytails.
The woman before me is full of life and laughter, of interest and dreams, and for the first time in forever, it intrigues me rather than bothers me.
It reminds me of times in a kitchen like this. Times when homes were meant for laughter and life, instead of work and rest. When there was someone who dared tease me. Someone close enough to ever get the opportunity.
“Victor?” she asks. There’s no hesitation in her voice. She says my name like she owns it, and not like she’d rather call me Mr. St. Clair and retreat back up her stairs like she thinks I bite.
“Yes?”
“Cheers to two months of marriage,” she says and raises her glass of kombucha.
I look down at my own glass and it looks like dishwater. But I clink it to hers. “Only ten more to go,” I say.
She smiles at me over the rim of her glass, and despite myself, I feel myself smiling back.
It dies as soon as I taste the drink. Cecilia bursts out laughing at my expression and she doesn’t stop, folding herself double over my kitchen counter.
“Yes,” I say. “Definitely drunk.”
She laughs again. “I’m sorry. It’s just… I’m sorry.”
I pour the rest of my glass out in the sink. “It was probably bad luck to toast with something that disgusting.”
“Your face,” she says. “I’ve always been so careful to serve you things you enjoy.”
“Things I enjoy?”
“Yes. You like lettuce on BLTs, but not in burgers. You prefer your steaks medium-rare. You hate creamers in coffee, and flavors even more. I once served you hazelnut coffee and never again.”
Her smile is satisfied. I decide to unsettle it. “You might know my social security number,” I say, “but that doesn’t mean you really know me.”
“It doesn’t?” Cecilia shifts on the chair and it brings her closer, a whiff of perfume washing over me. Her green eyes are serious on mine. “I know who you hire, who you spend your time with. I know your taste in clothes and your tailoring sizes. I know that cutesy email farewells aggravate you. You don’t like holidays. Youhatewhen people use the word ‘like’ needlessly. I’ve seen the way your eyes twitch.”
“My eyes do not twitch,” I say. “But the word ‘like’ is pointless.”
Her grin widens. “It didn’t use to bother me, but now I think of you whenever I hear a person using it.”
“So you know a lot,” I say. “But not all.”
She purses her lips. “I know your taste in women.”
Ah. Interesting. “Do you?”
“Yes. I organized most of your dates, you know. Booked restaurants, put your calls through. You have a type.”
Cecilia has never spoken to me like this. I doubt she would’ve just yesterday, and I doubt she will tomorrow, when the liquid courage has disappeared.
“And what do you think my type is, Cecilia?”
“Tall, slender, young,” she says. “They often expect you to send a car to pick them up. By you, of course, they really mean me.”
“Mmm.”
“Do you know I had to prepare a list of excuses in my desk for when they ask to be patched through to you?”
“A list of excuses?”