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“Oui, Callot Soeurs,” I echoed. My French wasn’t nearly as good as his. I laughed, and he joined in with me.
“Anyway, the Callot Soeurs evening gowns were a particular favorite.”
“You’re a student?”
I nodded. “New York School of Design. First-year.”
“That’s right. Do you have a specialty?”
“I design mostly knit ready-to-wear. But I hope to expand my horizons at the school and see where it takes me.”
Paul surprised me by giving me all of his attention. His questions kept me talking to him, and he listened like everything I had to say was important. It made me feel seen in a way that warmed my insides. Despite the notorious traffic, we arrived fairly quickly at The Grill in the iconic Seagram Building in Midtown Manhattan.
The driver opened the car and somehow everyone around fell into a protocol of giving Paul a wide berth, something I’d only observed happening to A-list celebrities. He kept his long strides slow before placing his palm on my lower back. Even though I wasn’t cold, I shivered.
The restaurant was an opulent work of art, with chain metal covering floor-to-ceiling windows, modern art installments, and a maze of cloth tabletop seating. Seamlessly situated were the who’s who in New York City. I’d passed a few stars I recognized along the way to our seats. Three men and two women alreadyoccupied Paul’s table, all power-suited and polished. As a group, they rose to greet him, and surprisingly, an open seat was next to him for me to sit. Their gazes washed over me, turning from curiosity to dismissiveness in less than a minute. However, Paul said, “This is my personal guest, Nadia Sokol. She’s a designer studying at the New York School of Design.”
Their focus returned as if his acknowledgment mattered.
I was shocked he knew my name because he never asked in the car, and I never even thought to offer it to him. But of course, he knew about me from the agency. He didn’t elaborate on why I was there, but the group sat down and went straight to discussing business. They mostly spoke in abbreviations, and I couldn’t recognize and follow the conversation. However, Paul was observant. He held up his hand, and the group fell silent.
“Let’s tell Nadia what we’re talking about,” he announced, then turned toward the woman seated at my right. “Sue?”
She gave me a proper nod of acknowledgment, but her focus stayed on Paul.
“I’m sure you’re aware Mr. Crane writes, plays, and produces music through Crane Enterprises. We’re discussing the progress on a new musical score for films and streaming, our marketing plan for our artists, and upcoming collaborations with other musicians.”
“In other words, work,” Paul said. “We’ll try to talk about other things, too, so you won’t feel left out.”
“I don’t mind. You don’t have to include me,” I murmured.
“Nadia’s shy. I’ll stop to explain so we won’t continue to bore you.”
I glimpsed at him, and he grinned.
They all laughed lightly, and I eased into my seat. He winked at me but kept his word. Between their discussions, Paul would periodically lean over to mention the artist or what they wereworking on. I wouldn’t remember any of it, only that he made a point of treating me special.
Steaming plates passed by our table, and I was distracted by the aroma of food that made my mouth water. When it came time to order, I was nervous about my turn.
Paul leaned closer. “What would you like to eat, Nadia?”
My finger trembled as I pointed at the pumpkin soup.
“I want you to point at everything you like without modesty.” His voice was just above a whisper, but the demand in his tone said to do as he instructed.
I dropped the napkin, and Paul reached down to retrieve it, covering my hand with his on my lap. The sensation of his touch was electric, sending a current up my arm that broke into goosebumps. He smiled at me but smoothly ordered a replacement, which was promptly given to him. I could only stare, gobsmacked by his confidence and command of those around him.
I quietly pointed out a few selections on the menu. Since the most I ever drank was a glass of warm rum over Christmas, I turned down wine. When the time came to order, Paul selected everything I said I liked and asked them to box the extras for carryout.
“Mr. Crane, what are you doing?” I whispered.
“A small gift for joining me for lunch,” he whispered back in an amused tone and then winked at me.
Butterflies exploded in my stomach, and I covered the goofy grin I knew I had on my face. Of course, I had no idea how I’d fit the extra food in my room and the dorm hall fridge. I mentally noted to donate what I couldn’t eat to the other students on my floor.
No one at the table batted an eye at us. To me, we seemed odd together, me in a knit dress I made and tights and him in a polished, pressed business suit.
I had no idea to what I owed my fortune, but I chalked it up as one of the oddities of life in New York City and figured I’d never see most of Paul’s employees again. So, I gave myself permission to eat heartily and clear my plate. Hell, I would have licked my plate of grilled steak and chocolate cake clean, but he glanced my way a few times, assessing me. Our legs brushed, and a tingling sensation went through my body. I clenched my thighs and tried my best not to give anything away. But Paul was perceptive. I believe he knew the effect he had on me.
