“Would you like a glass?” She holds out a stemless wine glass filled with red liquid.
I remember my manners and join her on the rug, then reach for the offered drink. “Thank you. What kind is it?”
Her eyes meet mine and our fingers brush as I take the glass, sending a jolt of awareness through me. “An Australian Shiraz. I’ve been enjoying them for a few months.”
I settle against a firm pillow and take a sip. The strong flavors, hinting of blackberry and currant, spill across my palate to ignite another sense I’ve neglected lately. “Nice.”
The mellow tones of James Taylor fill my ears, melting away more of the stress and anxiety from the prior week. I don’t think I’ve been with a woman in years who didn’t expect me to take her to a five star restaurant every night, fly her to Vegas in the company jet for a weekend, or shower her with diamonds because she spread her legs for me.
And yet this one doesn’t even know my last name, what I really do for a living, or how much I’ve got in the bank. It’s refreshing. Her home tells me she’s not a gold digger, but come to think of it, what else do I know about her and her job?
“Tell me about yourself, Tony.” She must be thinking along the same lines that I am. “It was a shock running into you in the lobby the other day.”
Ah… here it comes. Once I tell her what I do and who I work for, I bet things will change between us. Maybe I can do a little creative avoidance. “Not much to tell.” I shrug. “I’ve worked in Rockefeller Center for nine years now. Pays the bills.”
“Nine years?” she repeats. “That tells me a lot about you.”
“Really?” I cock an eyebrow, wondering what it could possibly reveal about me.
Heather takes a leisurely sip of her drink, pink tongue licking a droplet near the rim before it slides down the side. “You’re loyal and hardworking.”
“How can you know that?”
“Nine years? Most men would have left for a better offer when one came along, so that tells me you’re loyal. You would’ve been canned a long time ago if you weren’t any good—hence, hardworking.” Her eyes narrow on me, traveling up and down my body. “I bet you’re ambitious, and have moved up the ranks fairly quick.”
I think about the long hours and lost weekends, not sure how quick my rise was. From the outside looking in, it might appear that way. I glance toward the stereo nestled under a flat screen TV, not sure how observant she is and how much is a lucky guess.
“Judging by the Breguet timepiece on your wrist, I’d say you love watches.”
My shocked bark of laughter erupts, sounding loud in the air previously dominated by the relaxing music. Heather’s mouth quirks up at one corner. “How did you recognize my watch?” I angle my head and assume a sterner tone. “Did you work at a carnival guessing people’s weight or age, but secretly you were just super observant?”
A sad look crosses her face and disappears. “No, my father had one. My mother bought it for him on their twentieth anniversary. He loved watches, too.” The melancholy moment passes before I have a chance to ask about her parents, and she stares at me with heat in her eyes. “I’d be willing to wager you wear an even more expensive one to work—especially if you’re going to close a deal like you did on Friday.”
I think of my collection of six watches, each well over twenty grand apiece and nestled in custom made self-winding cases. “Okay, now you’re just showing off.”
Heather laughs and grabs a plate of appetizers, doling out a selection of items to a smaller plate before handing it to me. “Tell me, what kind of music do you like?”
Our dinner progresses leisurely for over an hour, music shifting to more modern rock with a slow feel, the conversation flowing easily between us. Upon reflection, I realize she’s asked me more questions than I’ve asked her. I’d like to change that, but it seems every time I ask her something, she offers a minimal answer and steers the conversation back to me.
While I don’t mind talking about my favorite sports, movies, and books, I get the distinct feeling I’m being interviewed. Time to turn the tables and get some of my own curiosity sated.
“I forgot to ask, where do you work in the building?” I raise my wine, watching the simple grace of her movements as she picks another morsel to taste.
“Parkerson Advertising. On the twentieth floor.”
That name sounds familiar. I take a drink of wine, musing on how I know the name…
My sip goes down the wrong way and I sputter, thankfully closing my mouth before I shoot wine across her tan rug.