He looked up and straightened. I watched him take in my appearance for the evening. Moving his eyes from my legs up to my eyes, he smiled. “Hello, Kristen.”
I beamed. “Hello, Vincent.”
“I like the outfit.” He stepped toward me and bent down to whisper in my ear. “It’ll look even better pooled on the floor.”
I pressed my cheek into his chest. “I think you’re right. But we need to get ourselves fed first.”
He took my hand. “Where to?”
“I made reservations at Strip House. It’s nice out, so I think we should just walk.”
Vincent looked around, then shrugged. “Lead the way.”
We made it to Strip House twenty minutes later, holding hands the whole way. The restaurant was decorated in an 1890s bordello style, with red wallpaper and low lighting. The Zagat Guide had been right: this definitely felt romantic and even a little naughty. I was very pleased with the selection.
Vincent looked around and took everything in. “Nice choice,” he said. As the hostess took us to our seat, he slid his hand down my back, fingering the band of my underwear through my dress.
I shuddered at the intimate gesture. Thoughts of how the evening might end sent a surge of heat through my body. Every touch he gave me merely made me want him even more. The way I craved him bordered on scary: I had been working for the past two years to be a very self-sufficient person, but there was no replacement for his hands on my body.
We took our seats and ordered quickly. I got a bottle of malbec to split between the two of us, and we both ordered steak. Vincent looked more relaxed than I had thought he would. Yet again, I was impressed with his ability to switch between modes seamlessly.
We made chit-chat until the wine came. I had decided I wanted to wait until I had a little liquid courage before I brought up the topic of his schedule. There was still no answer popping out at me as far as what he could do, but I thought having the fact that it was bothering me on his radar wouldn’t hurt. If he got offended about it, then maybe, as much as it hurt, having him out of my life would be for the best. Some kind of balance between work and life was important to me in whoever I ended up with. As crazy as it sounded to me, I realized that thinking about him in those terms wasn’t too far-fetched. Of course, that was just my perspective. I wasn’t sure if he felt the same way.
Once the wine came, I took a big sip. When I looked at Vincent, I could tell he was watching me carefully. He knew me well enough to know something was up.
“So,” I said, gathering myself, “how was your trip?”
He scrunched his eyebrows. “Fine. Business. Is there something you want to say?”
I took a deep breath. “You were gone a long time.”
“I know. It was exhausting.”
“Is that normal for you?”
He chewed his lip. “Yes and no. It happens. When you run a business, sometimes you just have to be the person to handle things.”
“Can’t you just delegate to someone else and fire them if they do it poorly?”
A fire broke out behind his eyes as he continued to work his jaw. “I could, sure. I could do whatever I wanted.”
The intensity with which he had begun to speak startled me. I knew I could guess the answer to the following question, but I asked anyway. “So why don’t you?”
“Because there are a lot of people whose jobs depend on my company being good at what it does, and I owe it to all of them to make my company the best I can make it.”
I found myself nodding before I realized it. It was a more altruistic answer than I was expecting.
“Besides,” he continued, “I’m thirty one. Not exactly pushing retirement age. As successful as I’ve been, I still have ambitions to push the company further.”
That was closer to the answer I had guessed. “Where do I fit into these plans?” I asked. Tears fought to come out, but I held them back. I didn’t want to be crying for this conversation, especially in public.
His expression softened. “I’m still figuring that out. Believe me, it’s not absent from my mind.”
“These past two weeks were very hard for me. I felt like I was just another thing on your todo list.”
He sighed. “Kristen, I told you at the Knicks game that I’m a very busy man.”
“I know. And I brushed it off at the time. But it’s becoming a problem for me.” I was still holding on without crying, but I didn’t know how much more of this conversation I could take before the waterworks started. It was strange not being able to control my emotions better in public.
He took another deep breath. His thin lips and squinting eyes signaled to me he was thinking hard about what he was going to say next. I waited. Finally, he spoke. “I just need some time to figure out how to make it work. You’re important to me. I think I’ve shown you that so far. Even if I’m not perfect, I want to make this work, and I tend to get what I want when I put my mind to it.” He smiled. “Just please be patient. I’m working on it.”
It was as good an answer as I could expect. A smile crept over my faith. I was relieved that he hadn’t gotten too defensive. He was right: we hadn’t been dating that long. I couldn’t expect him to change his lifestyle overnight. If he was working on it, that was enough.
I heard his phone buzz. He reached into his pocket and checked his phone quickly before looking up at me. “Sorry, that’s set to only vibrate when it’s from an important number. But tonight’s just between us. It can wait. I’m leaving this here while I go to the men’s room so you don’t think I’m sneaking away for business, okay?”
I was surprised at the way his brown eyes searched my face. His expression showed how seriously he was taking our conversation. I nodded my assent. “Thank you for listening to me,” I said. “It means a lot.”
I could see him relax as he smiled. “I’m trying. Be right back.”
Sure enough, he left the phone next to his silverware. I watched it, musing on how many people must be trying to reach Vincent at all hours around the world. That he was the nexus of such a huge enterprise was amazing. Sure, I had to keep my work phone on me at all times, but that was mostly to answer to my bosses. When people went to Vincent, it was because they had decided he needed to know something. He wanted that communication.
His phone flashed—though it didn’t vibrate—and despite my instincts toward respecting his privacy, I looked. What kinds of things were people sending to Vincent at all hours? I thought it would probably be something almost indecipherable to me: earnings reports, internal memos, or something similar. Instead it was a text message. I read the name upside down and felt my throat tighten up.