That issue settled in my mind; I turn back to the third case file I need to review but glance at my watch. Since I won’t be meeting with any clients until tomorrow, it’s getting close to time for me to knock off. As I’m pondering whether to power through this file here or take it home, I become aware of a presence in the doorway to my office. It’s large and looming, and I hear the tiniest knock against the door frame. When I look up, I give a start and stifle a gasp to keep it from escaping.
As if my thoughts were a beacon that drew him, Sawyer is standing there; his hands slipped casually into his pockets. He’s leaning against the doorframe, a wide smile on his face. He cuts an imposing figure and looks like he just stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine. I quickly draw in a breath and let it out slowly to recover my wits, not wanting to encourage him by looking like some awestruck teenage girl.
“Sawyer,” I manage, once I can keep my voice from quavering. “What are you doing here?”
He gives me a small shrug. “I was just wondering why you’d give an old friend a bum number,” he explains. “So I thought I’d come down and ask personally.”
I open my mouth but find that I don’t have an answer at the ready – which is a rarity for me since I’m usually very quick on my feet.
“Tell you what,” he goes on. “Why don’t you tell me over dinner? My treat.”
I shake my head. “Tonight’s not good for me,” I reply. “I have –”
The roguish grin on his face only widens. “I have this strange suspicion that no night will be good for you,” he cuts me off. “So why not just bite the bullet tonight?”
“I have a lot of responsibilities.”
“I don’t doubt that,” he states. “But there is something I wanted to speak with you about. Something important.”
“Important?”
He nods as I sit here, caught somewhere between being intrigued and terrified. As his dark brown eyes bore into mine, my breath catches in my throat. I feel my heart turn a somersault. I also start to wonder if what he wants to talk about is at all related to the meeting with the borough board the other night. His promise to talk to Compass.
But then another thought slips into my head – he’d been a little cagey about his interest in a local community meeting, not to mention what he does for a living. But at the time, I brushed it off as a mixture of coincidence and my own heightened emotion conspiring to cast everything in a sinister light.
Seeing him standing before me now though, and having him tell me he has important things to talk about, makes me wonder if maybe it wasn’t simply coincidence after all. But what could he have to talk to me about? And then I begin to wonder if he works for Compass in some capacity – in-house counsel maybe? Is he a lawyer, too? Is that why he was so interested in whether or not I’d actually try to get an injunction from the courts? I can’t recall what his family did to amass the fortune they have, so maybe it is in law. Maybe Sawyer works for his family law firm.
“Don’t worry, I won’t keep you out too late,” he urges. “I know it’s a school night.”
I consider him for a moment and then think back to my earlier conversation with Gabby. And maybe to prove to her – and more importantly to myself – that I’m not entirely predictable and boring, I give him a nod.
“Sure,” I tell him. “Why not? I have a few questions of my own I’d like to ask.”
Chapter Six Sawyer
“This place is nice,” she says, a slight nervous tremor in her voice. “The food is amazing.”
“Yeah, I come here a lot,” I nod. “Best Cuban food outside of Havana.”
I’m sitting across from her at Carillo’s, a favorite Cuban restaurant of mine. It’s a casual, family run restaurant, so it’s homey, which means there isn’t the natural tension of being in a more formal setting. Carillo’s is relatively small and done mostly in red brick and a rich, red color with black tables and booths.
The air is saturated with the aroma of the spices they use, and the music piping in from the overhead speakers is a lively Cuban band. The rear wall of the restaurant is taken up by a mural of the Cuban flag. On the other walls are framed black and white photos of Havana and some of the country’s rural areas. Everything is neat, orderly, and clean without being antiseptic – this place oozes culture and personality.
“Not much for cooking, huh?” she asks.
“Not really,” I answer. “Not much sense in cooking for one.”
She cocks her head and looks poised to say something, but then seems to think better of it and remains silent. I have a feeling her question was going to be about why I’m not married at this point in my life – or at least in a relationship. Part of me is glad she chose not to ask, simply because that’s not a discussion I feel like having right now. It’s enough for me at this point for her to know I’m single – that at least puts the ball in motion.
“How did you find out where I work?” she asks.
“Wasn’t that hard. Just a matter of asking the right people the right questions,” I explain, giving her a sly smile. “I’m a smart, resourceful guy.”
“Apparently,”
