by Anna Collins
“Until noon then, Ms. Cohen,” I murmured.
Chapter Nine
Callie
It wasn’t a date. It wasn’t a date. I hated I repeated that to myself the entire time I prepared for the da—er, client meeting with Apollo.
I repeated it while I shaved my legs and armpits, while I applied my Chanel No. 5, while I curled my hair into waves, while I spread sheer rose lipstick over my lips, while I primed and preened my eyebrows and eyelashes and nails and…
It wasn’t a date.
So I wore a black blazer over my little red dress. Like a professional. The lingerie underneath was just to feel confident, that’s all.
Nick watched me slip my black heels on, his slender arms crossed. I let him soak up the view—I’d worn the same dress for him before, sans blazer. And I didn’t want him thinking—wrongly—I was going on a date or anything.
“You look good,” he said flatly.
I slipped my iPad into my handbag. I would have preferred a small purse, but I was specifically instructed to bring my note-taking device.
“I’m hoping I look professional enough to do lunch with a billionaire client,” I said.
“You look like you’re going on a date.” Nick smiled when he said it, but it still felt like an accusation.
“Guess I’ve never dressed for this kind of occasion before.” I stepped up to Nick, finding my equilibrium in my heels, and shadowed a kiss on his lips. I didn’t want to paint him sheer rose, so I didn’t quite connect the kiss. “It’s not a date,” I said aloud for the first time. “I’m going to listen to his offer. Then I’ll decide if I want to accept.”
“Sounds a lot like a date to me.” Nick laughed this time. I patted him playfully on the cheek.
“He’s not my type.” Technically I didn’t lie. I’d never even considered a perfectly-chiseled billionaire to be in my category of potential partners. I was a realist. And besides, Apollo was too alpha for my taste. I wasn’t looking for someone to take care of my every whim—I wanted to live my own life, to work, to be proud of what I had done and how I had grown.
I didn’t want to date Apollo. I wanted to be Apollo. Except, you know, in a female version.
“At least you’re getting a good meal out of it,” Nick pointed out.
“Let’s hope he pays for it.” I shadow-kissed Nick one more time, winking to remind him I was coming home dressed to the nines and ready to either celebrate or be consoled.
And with that, I left the apartment to go meet my billionaire client.
I gave myself plenty of time to get to the restaurant. It was a good half-hour drive from my apartment, and I absolutely didn’t want to be late. That said, being one minute early also wasn’t an option, apparently, so I’d have some time to collect my thoughts beforehand.
Or so I thought. Traffic turned out to be insane—a four-car pileup, according to the radio. I was boxed in before I knew what was going on, and traffic was a crawl. I blasted the AC so I wouldn’t become gross with nervous sweat, and I kept my eye on the time. I swore just about every time the minute changed. My GPS said I had twelve minutes left in my drive, assuming clear traffic. It was 11:45.
No luck. Luck was not a thing I had.
11:46. I swore.
Finally, the traffic got moving at a decent pace. I had to force myself not to ride the bumper of the Buick in front of me, instead of weaving around it the second the road turned back into a two-lane.
Miraculously, I made it to the restaurant with five minutes to spare. I got out of my car and locked it, taking some time to perfect my heel-clad stride as I paid the parking meter, crossed the road, and approached the restaurant.
Saison didn’t look like much from the outside. A red-brick building with a dark door frame and the word “Saison” in black beside the double-door entrance. But considering its reputation, it didn’t need to be showy.
I pulled on the door handle. It didn’t budge. I pulled on the other handle. Nope. Pushing didn’t work either, it was worth checking—Lord knows I’d been stuck outside buildings before because I pulled instead of pushed. The hours of the restaurant confirmed it didn’t open until 5:30. But Daphne said it would be open for “Mr. Irons.” I tried peeking inside, but the door was reflective and slightly tinted, so all I could make out was my own awkward self, hands forming a visor over my eyes, trying to see into a closed restaurant. I knocked on the door glass. Waited. Looked at my phone. 11:59. Did I need to find a back entrance? Would it seem pathetic if I called Daphne for help?
Just as I was about to have a panic attack in the middle of an urban sidewalk, a door slammed behind me. I could see the car in the reflection of the door—an all-black convertible with gorgeous curves and a retro aesthetic, like something out of Mad Men. I wasn’t a car person, but it definitely made my head spin around to get a better look.
And lo and behold, Apollo was walking around the car and… paying the parking meter? I don’t know why it was such a surreal sight—like rich people didn’t need to pay for parking, or they didn’t bother because a ticket cost would be nothing to them.
As he began to cross the street, he checked his watch, looked up at me, and nodded. So professional. I waved back, suddenly flushed with embarrassment as just sixteen hours ago I told him to find someone else to write his “shitty book.” And now here I was. Maybe I shouldn’t have called back…
“You’re early,” Apollo said when he reached me. He wasn’t wearing his Armani this time—actually, he was the more casual dresser of the two of us, sporting a slim leather jacket, charcoal t-shirt, dark wash jeans, and black suede desert boots. At least he kept to his monochrome color scheme.
“I tried to be punctual,” I said. “Nice car. What kind is it?”
“1961 Ferrari. It’s called a California Spider.”
“Wow,” I said. “Just like you.”
He gave me that half-smile again. “If you’re looking for a new name for my autobiography, I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than that.”
I wasn’t, but “California Spider” sounded a lot better than “Lyre: A True Story.” Even after I found out the lyre was a harp-like instrument the mythical god Apollo used.
“That would be a drastic edit,” I said, smiling back. “I admit I’m surprised you drove yourself here. And paid for the parking, too.”
He removed a key from his pocket and opened the restaurant door; my instinct was correct—he had to pull it. He motioned for me to enter before him, so I did. It felt strange to step into an empty restaurant as if I was breaking the law or something.
Except the restaurant wasn’t completely empty. There was a waitress behind the waiting booth, menus already in her arm.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Irons, Ms. Cohen,” she said smilingly, lips a dark red over perfect white teeth. She had long, straight strawberry-blonde hair, and a tight black dress that hugged her slim body. In short, she was gorgeous—and I had to wonder if she saw me peeking my head into the door window a minute ago and chose to ignore me.
“Hello, Cassandra,” Apollo said, smiling more warmly to her than he ever had to me. Was there something more between these two? “You know you can call me Apollo.”
Cassandra inclined her head. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Mr. Irons. It’s a respect thing.”
Apollo raised his eyebrows. “And when you have mail delivered to you, what name do they give?”
“I don’t get mail,” Cassandra replied. “Everything’s electronic now.”
I suppressed a chuckle.
“Your email then,” Apollo said.
“Miss Cassandra Winick.”
I had my doubts people used “Miss” over “Ms.,” but that wasn’t my business…
“Well then, Miss Winick,” Apollo said, “it’s good to see you again.”
Cassandra smiled, dimples dotting her cheeks. She looked down demurely, flushing red. I managed to keep my eyes from rolling. Was this charm from Mr. Irons? I wasn’t sure he could be anything more tha
n intensely stoic and to-the-point. Did he always flirt with cute waitresses? He certainly didn’t give me that kind of attention—not that he needed to or anything. But then, I would prefer his charm over his business-like aggression.
“Same to you, Mr. Irons,” Cassandra said, still rosy-cheeked. “Please follow me to your table.”
We followed Cassandra into the restaurant as she swayed her hips with each catwalk-like step. I guessed if I were to follow Apollo around I’d see a lot of this kind of thing. The thought didn’t especially appeal to me. I mean, obviously he was going to have women flirt with him—for God’s sake, I wrote a whole article about his eligibility—but the thought of enduring pretty face after pretty face hitting on Prince Charming over here soured my interest in the job. Especially since he treated me more like a wicked stepsister. Oh well. I hadn’t signed any contracts yet.
The restaurant was gorgeous on the inside, at least. The red brick of the building was exposed inside, the roof was very high and industrial, and the kitchen was completely open concept, as though the restaurant was someone’s home. It was warm and comfortable, with gray carpeting and tables that matched the red-brown of the exposed brick. I kind of wanted to pack my bags and move in.
There were already three white-clad chefs working in the kitchen, and they waved to “Mr. Irons” and exchanged personal greetings with him as he passed. Despite Apollo’s inclination to write about his accomplishments, he never mentioned how well-liked he was. That said, I was sure he was paying everyone well for their efforts…
Cassandra weaved around a tall shelf which held a decorative stack of chopped logs, the kind you’d build a campfire with. The logs were piled from the floor to above our heads in a big rectangle about ten feet wide and seven feet tall. It gave the place an earthy, woodsy smell. Our table was on the other side of the log pile, and it seated six. Given how many intimate displays of comfy-looking chairs around small round tables I saw, I was glad Cassandra placed us at a regular dining table. It would be hard to be professional if Apollo and I had to snuggle around a small corner booth. And I was sure Cassandra didn’t want us snuggling either.
She placed our menus down, and before I could pull myself a chair, Apollo pulled one and inclined for me to sit. I had never been “seated” by a man before—I hadn’t even seen someone pull a chair for a lady except as a joke or in a movie. It seemed our billionaire was more of an old soul than your typical letter-writing hipster. As long as he didn’t call me “M’lady,” we’d be fine. I smoothed my skirt and slid into the seat, thanking him awkwardly as he pushed me closer to the table—no small feat, considering I wasn’t quite as slim as blondie here, and the chair was on carpet. Clearly, his muscles weren’t just for show.
He hung his jacket on the chair opposite me and took his seat while Cassandra asked us if we’d like drinks. As much as I thought Apollo’s ‘60s aesthetic would call for business lunch martinis, I stuck with water. To his credit, Apollo did as well. “But feel free to open a bottle of your favorite to share with this afternoon’s chefs,” he said to Cassandra. She thanked him graciously and told us to call her if we needed anything more.
She disappeared behind me, presumably heading for the bar on the other end of the restaurant.
“That was generous of you,” I said to Apollo.
He took a drink of water since there were already two glasses on the table when we came in. His glacial eyes held me as his throat bobbed with each gulp. And it was a long sip—or maybe it just felt that way—with me silently fighting a staring contest while more than a little fixated on his strong neck. It was very kissable. I mean, as a matter of fact. I was sure Cassandra would want to kiss it. Ahem.
After seemingly forever, he put the glass down. It was empty except for some ice.
“Thirsty?”
He dabbed his lips with a napkin. “You said you were surprised I drove myself and paid for the parking. I suppose you expected me to show up in a stretch limo, or to double-park my car over a handicap spot just because I can afford it.”
I was taken aback. “N-no,” I stammered. “I didn’t mean—”
“I drive myself because I’m capable,” he said. “I don’t treat the world like I own it, and if I did own it, I wouldn’t be disrespectful of it.”
“Geez. You don’t need to be defensive, I was just—”
“I’m only answering your earlier question. Paying a parking permit is cheaper than a ticket, and easier to pay. I wouldn’t be wealthy if I wasted money for no reason.”
He was right. I was the one being defensive. Time to change that.
“And yet you drive a fancy classic car and hire out restaurants and their staff for your own interest,” I said. “Not to mention pay for cute waitress’ drinks.”
Cassandra re-appeared with a pitcher of water. Damn, did she hear what I was saying? She silently filled Apollo’s glass, the ice clinking loudly as it dropped into the glass. I took a sip of my own drink to occupy myself during the awkwardness of the moment. Cassandra smiled to Apollo as he thanked her. She didn’t so much as look at me.
When she left, Apollo lifted his glass for a sip, hesitated, and put it down again.
“The car belonged to my grandfather,” he said. Strangely, he avoided looking at me, instead focusing on his glass of water. “He wasn’t a rich man, but he worked very hard. He went from working a small plot of land to owning a dozen farms and ranches across the Midwest, settling only for the best of the best. He was kind to his family, generous to his loved ones, and his goods were valued among people like I am today—people who could afford it. That car was one of the only luxuries he ever afforded. My father wanted it so much, he offered my grandfather millions. And when Grandpa passed away, he gave it to me. Not my dad. Me.”
Apollo finally looked up at me. “My father was smart and capable, but he leaned generously on my grandfather’s wealth. I refused to do the same with him. I wanted to earn my keep. Build myself as a man the same way Grandpa did.
I don’t delude myself into thinking I faced the same struggles, that I’m entirely a self-made man. But I want to instill in myself the morals of my grandfather. Those of self-reliance, hard work, and generosity rather than unworthy inheritance and miserly greed. And my grandfather…”
He stopped there, looking away. I thought I saw a shine of moisture in his eyes.
His grandfather gave him the car. His only luxury. The way Apollo used the past tense made me think his grandfather left him the car in his will. I never got any of this from Apollo’s autobiography—this humanity. Why was he such a hard shell about it? God, I had to fight not to get weepy.
To lighten the mood, I said, “Should I be writing all this down?”
Apollo huffed a laugh, looking back at me. “It’s not as though you haven’t read all of this anyway.”
“You mentioned your grandfather’s ranch in the book,” I said. “And your moral compass. But there’s something more to the story, isn’t there?”
He tightened his lips. “It’s not… necessary information.”
“It’s more ‘necessary’ than you think. If people don’t care about you as a person, they won’t care about anything in that book. They’ll treat it like a textbook for some historical figure. It might be interesting, but people won’t invest in it.”
I tried to explain it in a way he’d understand. Surely “investment” was a concept he was familiar with. But before he could respond, bouncy blonde Cassandra came back, this time with food. Or what smelled like food.
She started with what looked sort of like two tiny sandwiches cut into small rectangular cubes. I didn’t remember ordering anything, let alone a tiny bread thing that strangely smelled like roses. Apollo thanked Cassandra, who sashayed off, swinging her butt. Since Apollo didn’t turn around, I was her only audience as she returned to the kitchen.
“Is this… it?” I asked. “Uh, is this…” I was going to say, “What is this?” but I didn’t want to look boorish.
�
��Urchin on toast,” Apollo said. He sliced into it with his knife and forked a piece of it into his mouth.
Urchin? Had I ever had urchin before? I didn’t think so.
“It’s their signature here,” Apollo went on when he finished swallowing. “I ordered the tasting menu. That should be sufficient.” He sliced off some more of his urchin toast thing. “Try it.”
I followed Apollo’s example as exactly as I could, mirroring his movements so as not to appear improper somehow. Really, it looked no different than most people’s eating etiquette I knew.
It tasted… good. Amazing, actually. Like French bread, but with a creamy, slightly sweet ocean taste without tasting fishy. The texture was smooth, like custard, and I savored every bite. I didn’t want it to end—to the point where I barely registered Apollo was talking to me.
“—and his autobiography was a triumph. Even today, it’s a joy to read. That’s what I aspire to leave behind. Maybe it’s arrogant to compare myself even in passing to his incredible life, but I prefer to model myself after the best of men, even if the comparison is unfair.”
I nodded very slowly, feigning understanding. “Sure,” I said. “I can respect that.”
Apollo looked amused. “Did you enjoy your first course?”
“Oh, absolutely! Mm, it was heaven in my mouth.”
“I take it you didn’t register who I was talking about.”
Damn. He caught me.
“Benjamin Franklin,” he explained. “Obviously his autobiography isn’t as… ‘complete’ as some might be today, but considering the man’s life, I’m sure we can forgive him.”
What did I know about Ben Franklin? He wasn’t a president. He had the kite and the lightning. Co-signed the Declaration of Independence. Um. Is on the hundred dollar bill. Founding father. Apparently, has a good autobiography.