The Fortunate Ones
Page 38

When we walk through the restaurant to find our table, I’m aware of the women in the room eyeing James. They just can’t help themselves. Tonight, he’s wearing another bespoke suit. This one is navy blue, and he’s paired it with a white shirt, no tie, the top two buttons undone. The look it supposed to be more casual than what he wears for work, but it’s more tantalizing than anything I’ve seen him in so far. Instead of telling him that, I sip my water.
“Should we get wine?” he asks, perusing the menu.
YES.
Alcohol is really my only hope at the moment. Without it, I won’t survive the first course.
The waiter arrives at the side of our table with sparkling water and a snooty French accent. I can tell James is happy to show me off when I rattle off our orders in French. The waiter raises a brow, impressed, before dipping in a short bow and scurrying off toward the kitchen to put our order in with the chef.
“I knew you would like this place,” James says with a lazy smile, leaning back in his chair.
He looks like a king surveying his kingdom. I watch as he brings his wine glass to his mouth and takes a small sip. His leg moves beneath the table, sliding between mine so that the silky material of his pants brushes against my bare leg. I clear my throat and sit up straight, but it’s no use. We might be in a restaurant with hundreds of people around us, but James is calling the shots, and if he wants to stretch the entire two-hour meal into some form of tortuous foreplay, he will.
“You’re quiet tonight,” he notes as our appetizers arrive.
I smile softly. “Just thinking about a few things.”
“Do you want to share them with me?”
I focus on my plate and shake my head. “Not really.”
He nods in understanding. “Tell me about your day instead. Did you use the spa gift certificate I had sent up?”
“I didn’t find the time.”
It came along with the flowers, and when I got back to the room after the pool, I impulsively ripped it into a hundred tiny pieces and flushed it down the toilet.
My answer amuses him. “Oh really? Was your day that busy?”
I know he doesn’t mean to make me feel small with his question, but I respond defensively nonetheless. “I worked out and took a nap, went down to the pool…”
I’m aware of how meaningless it sounds. He spent his day with his peers, paving the way for the future tech industry; meanwhile, I sipped on drinks with tiny umbrellas.
“Good. I’m happy you can relax while you’re here.”
He tries to reach across the table for my hand, but I move it away gently so it looks like a coincidence and not a passive-aggressive act on my part—though it definitely is.
“Do you think your wife will work?”
He pauses with his wine glass halfway to his mouth. Unsurprisingly, my out-of-left-field question catches him off guard. “If she wants to work, she can. I’d imagine it would be difficult though.”
“Why’s that?”
He sets his glass down and sighs. “Because I live a busy life. If she works long hours as well, we’d hardly see each other.”
“So ideally you would want her to stay home and what, raise kids?”
He nods. “I think that’d be easiest. That way she’s happy and the children are happy.”
I look down at where my finger is turning soft circles on the tablecloth. “What about moms who like to work? Surely you don’t think their children are less happy just because they don’t spend all day every day with their mothers.”
“Brooke, that’s not what I—”
“It’s good for children to experience things outside their home.”
He reaches across the table and catches my hand before I can move it a second time. My circles cease. “I completely agree. You asked a question and I answered it without giving it much thought. If my future wife wants to work, I’ll support her.”
The sincerity in his voice makes it hard to hold on to my anger. I take a deep breath and turn away, grateful to see our second course making its way toward us from the kitchen.
As we dine on tiny portions of food that cost more per serving than most people make in a week, I mull over all the reasons James and I would be better off staying away from each other. This feels like the beginning of something really serious, and that’s not what I want. It’s too much too fast. I knew something would happen in Vegas, but with the pace he’s setting, by the end of the conference we’ll be headed straight for one of those pop-up chapels down the street.
I won’t allow James to steamroll over my wants and needs. I’m not ready to play the housewife for him. I’m not ready to be a committee member of the Women’s Philanthropic League of Austin by day, mom and wife by night—yeah, no thanks. I’d rather schlep margaritas at Twin Oaks for the next five years.
After dinner, I insist on walking back to the hotel. James points out how impractical my shoes are, but I assure him I’ll be fine. I’ll do anything to delay our return to that quiet suite.
We walk side by side down the Vegas strip, and he tells me about the conference and what it could mean for his company. He’s passionate when he talks about his work, and I admire that. His keynote speech is tomorrow evening, and he tells me the main focus will be on the responsibility of entrepreneurs and inventors to focus on those who can’t be their own advocates, that first world progress does not have to come at the expense of third world suffering. He envisions a rising technological tide that lifts all boats, and for him, this means creating smart solutions to prevent and eradicate neglected tropical diseases. He’ll be unveiling the prototype for the BioShield, and he expects the press coverage will help bring on new and conscientious investors.
“If there’s enough support for it, we can do for health technology what Elon Musk has done for the electric car.”
He’s almost childlike in his optimism and I have to look away, back down the sidewalk before my heart slips a little more out of my grasp. This is a side of James I wish he wouldn’t reveal to me. Beneath the layers of pretension and wealth sits a heart of gold. I doubt many people see this side of him, not because he presents a cold facade to the rest of the world, but because he rarely fills his life with people who take the time to see it. I think of his impersonal, empty house back in Austin, that quiet corner in his living room with the half-read book and the mismatched furniture.
“Do you want to stop in for a drink somewhere?” he asks, reaching out for my hand.
His palm covers mine so easily that for a moment I forget about my niggling doubts. I think we should stop and get a drink, and after, when I’m just a little bit tipsy and we’ve made out like two teenagers on the side of the street, we should head back to the hotel and have a repeat of last night. It would feel good to forget about better judgment for another few hours. Maybe that’s exactly what I would have done, but then we walk past the Paris hotel and it jogs his memory.
“Oh, remind me when we get back to Austin,” James says, “there’s a restaurant I want us to try, Détour. It’s a bistro, romantic and small, not the kind of place you go to unless you’re there with someone special.”
I stiffen, aware of the meaning dripping from that sentence. First, I’m that someone special for James. Second, it’s the first time either of us has brought up the idea of continuing this once we’re back in Austin.
“Have you heard of it?” he continues, oblivious to the fact that I’m minutes away from a panic attack.
I nod and continue walking, all but pulling him in my wake.
“Hey, slow down. There’s no rush.”
His imperturbable calm finally does it. I can’t keep the lid on my emotions for another second.
“Yes, there is!” I explode, tearing my hand away from his and spinning around to face him on the sidewalk. “What are we doing? What is this?”
We’re blocking the flow of traffic, forcing tourists to weave around us.
“What do you mean?” he asks, wearing a mask of perfect confusion.
It makes me absolutely furious. He doesn’t get to suddenly feign amnesia. We both went into this with eyes wide open, but ever since we arrived in Vegas, James has acted like the two of us could actually be something, like this is a real thing forming here.