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I wince. “Ouch, you seem really surprised I attended one.”
He tsks, and I think it’s more at himself than at me. “Which university?”
“A local community one, then I finished up at a four-year.”
“Studying design?”
“Botany, actually. It’s the study of plants.”
He side-eyes me. “I know what botany is.”
“I’m used to having to explain.”
“That’s because you date turds like Tino.”
I laugh. “You can’t let it go.”
He shakes his head. “I have let it go.”
“Have not.”
“Have too.”
Corrado seems in his element, chipper, even. Not sure what to make of that. For a man who tried to give someone a gift, then got rejected, he seems unaffected. I’m both bothered and relieved. It bothers me he doesn’t seem to care much about me taking the little golden box, but I’m also relieved he’s acting mature about my refusal.
At the top of the stairs, we step directly into the vast hotel lobby. Thousands of tiny lights from dozens of modern chandeliers as well as wall mounts and lamps illuminate the nicest place I’ve ever seen. The pale caramel walls hold myriad beige and off-white paintings that add texture to the place.
People congregate on spaced-out sofas and couches, all decorated by feminine fur throws and soft cashmere blankets draped over worn, dark-brown leather couches.
A few orange Chesterfields add color and masculine character to the glitzy space.
“I love it,” I say. “It’s warm, inviting, and chic.” When Corrado says nothing and just looks at me, I blush, feeling awkward about commenting on the beautiful space. He lives in spaces like these, and I must find a way to fan girl over the interior design perfection in my head instead of out loud.
He leads the way inside, and I start noticing the glow on the skin of the women here, their perfectly manicured nails, the massive rocks on their fingers, and their shoes, many with red soles, the kind that cost more than the tuition for four years at the state university I attended.
As we move into the building, some people start doing a double take. A man sprints past us, then opens the large doors ahead of us, only to stand aside.
“Mr. Mancini,” he says and fixes his black tie. The broad-shouldered man of average height with a septum piercing and tribal tattoos over his neck and jaw spares me a glance.
“A drink before dinner?” Corrado asks, addressing the man.
I await the man’s answer.
“Wife?” Corrado prompts me.
The man’s eyebrows shoot up before he drops his gaze down my left side. I hide my ringless hand behind my back.
“Wife?” Corrado repeats. “Our table is not ready. This gentleman is offering us a drink at the bar.” He points at a gorgeous brown-and-white space ahead of us. It’s also full of patrons and people standing at a large bar that runs along the right side of the wall. Most of them aren’t holding drinks.
“We apologize for not being ready, sir.”
“Don’t apologize, Samuel, when you are perfectly irritated that I didn’t call ahead as my family normally does. I didn’t call because I don’t want our family table. A regular table in the main dining room will do, and since my pregnant wife can’t drink, we will not make a round at the bar.”
Samuel looks from me to Corrado, clearly wanting to say something, but unsure if he should.
“You wish to be seen,” Samuel says.
Corrado nods.
