We drink. For the first thirty minutes, our conversation revolves around work. Who Pierre’s successor should be, what we can do to bring the Fontaine Paris up to snuff, things like that.
But after half an hour, Rob holds up his hands. “That's quite enough. I've been thinking about the bloody hotel since dawn. I don't care anymore. Let's talk about something else. Mel, you’ve been to this bar before? Is the food any good?”
“Only once. It’s nothing fancy. Comfort food.”
“Perfect.” He gives West a sidelong look. “Unlike Fontaine here, I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my mouth. Comfort food is exactly what I need.”
West rolls his eyes. “Rob bought a new car,” he says to me. “Did you hear? It’s an Aston Martin Valkyrie. Now, when I buy a car, I use it to get around. Go from point A to point B.”
I manage not to laugh in his face. “You drive a Maserati. People in glass houses...”
“Pour the lady another drink,” Rob says approvingly.
West clears his throat. “I can drive my car on the streets of Manhattan,” he says. “Rob stores his new car at a racetrack in Connecticut. Every weekend, he heads over there, signs a waiver promising not to sue the track if he dies in a fiery crash, and takes the Valkyrie out for its weekly outing.” He grins viciously. “Although, that’s probably all the car can handle. English engineering. That’s an oxymoron for you.”
“You’re the moron,” Rob shoots back. I watch his long fingers grip the glass. His head tilts back as he takes a sip of the Scotch, and I watch his throat swallow. It sends a surprising burst of heat through me. Then I realize I’ve been staring.
To cover up my confusion, I gulp down some of my wine.
“I mean, the Maserati is pretty enough,” he continues. “But Mel, you know what they say about Italians.”
I bite back my smile. Evidently, I’m the referee in this pissing contest. When I’m in New York, I see West and Rob every day; our offices are on the same floor. But I’ve never seen this side of them. We don’t hang out socially, and F&Y doesn’t do weekly happy hours. As far as I remember, this is the first time we’ve had a drink together, just the three of us.
“What do they say about Italians?”
“All form, no function. They look beautiful, but if you want performance, you go elsewhere.”
Oh. My. God. I burst out laughing at the look of mock indignation on West’s face. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever asked. How long have you known each other?”
“Eleven years,” West replies. “We went to business school together.”
As we settle in for the evening, the rain comes down even harder. West loosens his tie, and Rob rolls up his sleeves. Why do I find that sexy? It’s got to be the wine. Rob flags down the waitress and orders an assortment of appetizers for the table. I feel her gaze on me as she takes down the order, and I swear I can hear her thoughts. I don’t understand. Why are they with you?
Or maybe she’s thinking nothing of the sort. Maybe she’s just doing her job, and I’m the one who’s projecting my insecurities onto her.
My glass is empty. I reach for the bottle of wine, but West reaches for it at the same time. Our fingers collide.
A spark runs through me.
Oh, hell no. I yank my hand back. Sparks are bad. Sparks are very bad. First, I noticed Rob’s fingers caressing his glass, and now I’m feeling things because West accidentally touched me?
As handsome as West and Rob are, they’re permanently out of reach. They’re my bosses, and I love my job. I might look, but that’s it. Anything else is a waste of time.
More importantly, I haven’t been attracted to them.
Until now.
It has to be the lack of sleep. It drained my reservoirs of common sense and left this weird, unsettled feeling in its wake.
Don’t do anything stupid, Amelia Ortega. Do not do something you’ll regret in the morning.
West is staring at me. Rob finishes ordering and looks at me, and then at West, and at me again.
I need to go.
I want to stay.
The conflicting forces war in me. Need vs. want. Should I or shouldn’t I? It’s tempting to stay. See where this might go.
Except there are consequences to staying. I’m not like West and Rob. I don’t have a business degree from Stanford, and I don’t own half of a very profitable hotel chain. I have too much to lose.
Before I can decide either way, my phone rings. I glance down at it and stiffen. It’s my dad.
I talk to my parents once a week. Every Sunday afternoon. They never call me out of the blue.
“Papa?”
“Amelia.” Like Rob, my father’s accent thickens when he’s stressed. “Can you come home, mijita? Your mother has had a heart attack.”