“Just give me a minute to make a call,” I tell him.
“Take your time.”
I fish my phone out of my bag and call Nadia to let her know I’m going to be late tonight.
Chapter Twelve Sawyer
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” I remark.
“I wasn’t going to, at first,” she fires back. “And next time you want to talk to me, do it yourself, rather than have your lapdog come fetch me.”
Berlin takes a seat across from me at the table in Vito’s, a small Italian bistro I sometimes frequent, that I had Rider bring her to. Even fresh out of work, not having had a chance to freshen up, or put on something nice, Berlin is breathtaking. Not even a drab gray, off the rack business suit, can dull her beauty.
“I don’t think Rider would like being called a lapdog,” I chuckle.
“Well, what should I call a man who does your bidding – such as asking me to come have dinner with you?”
“A friend helping another friend out,” I say, feeling a small flash of irritation at her characterization of Rider. “Friends do that, you know.”
“What I know is that you probably could have said what you needed to say in a phone call,” she hisses. “Or better yet, an email.”
“Perhaps. But then I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of your sparkling company.”
She rolls her eyes at me, clearly not amused. I clear my throat and take a sip of my water. The waitress comes by. I order us a bottle of wine and look over to find Berlin staring at me with a dead-eyed expression on her face, radiating impatience and irritation from her every pore.
“Come on,” I tease. “Can’t you at least try to lighten up and enjoy dinner with me?”
“This isn’t a social visit,” she snaps. “Rider said you wanted to discuss something about the Atwell with me. I’m here – so speak.”
I nod. “I do,” I say. “But talking business makes my throat dry.”
“Sawyer –”
I hold up my hand, my frustration with her growing. “Look, I asked you to come to dinner with my tonight, so we could have a civilized discussion about everything,” I say. “I happen to like wine with my dinner. If you’d rather not have a glass – don’t. It’s up to you.”
She sits back in her seat, the irritation on her face matching what’s likely on mine. I swear to God, when she gets her blood up, everything is a war with her. The woman will not back down from a fight. Ordinarily, it’s an attribute I admire in a person. But right now, as I’m doing my best to get to know her and smooth the waters between us, it’s goddamn frustrating.
The waitress arrives with two glasses, and after letting me taste the wine, she pours for the both of us. Berlin looks at the glass like taking it will be admitting defeat or something. As she ponders her decision, I pick up my glass, raise it to her silently, then take a drink. Almost grudgingly, Berlin picks up her own glass and takes a sip – somehow managing to look brooding, pouty, and like she’s doing me a favor the whole time.
A moment after she brings the wine, the waitress brings out an antipasto plate for us to start with and then takes our dinner orders. I take a couple of pieces of prosciutto and cheese off the plate and pop them into my mouth, chewing contentedly.
“I took the liberty of ordering this before you got here,” I tell her.
“Great, thanks.”
Still holding her wine glass, Berlin sits back again and looks at me expectantly, but says nothing. She’s definitely not going to make this easy for me. Granted, she’s got a right to be pissed – I didn’t give her the full story when I know I should have. I can’t order her to not be pissed at me. Although, it sure would make things a lot easier.
I take a drink of my wine and set the glass back down, then lean forward, laying my forearms on the table, and lock eyes with her.
“You know, supposedly in the East, when somebody apologizes, it absolves them of further guilt or punishment,” I start.
“Well, we’re not in the East,” Berlin notes with a slight raise of her glass. “Which means I can go on punishing you and making you feel guilty as long as I want. Also, you haven’t apologized anyway.”
I chuckle and shake my head. “You are a tough nut, Berlin Roth.”
“In this town, you have to be,” she remarks. “And also, I don’t appreciate being lied to.”
“Fair enough,” I say. “But in my defense, I didn’t actually –”
I bite off my words when I see her eyes widen, and her expression darkens. Playing semantics games with her probably isn’t going to win me any points or do anything to smooth the feathers I’ve quite obviously ruffled.
“Just know I didn’t start out intending to – not tell you everything,” I explain. “It just sort of happened. And I’m sorry for not telling you when I should have.”
She purses her lips as she looks at me, quite obviously noticing the fact that I still refuse to cop to technically telling a lie – because I don’t think I did. Lying by omission may be a thing in the legal profession, but out here, I think not doling out information until it’s necessary is just smart business.
“Anyway,” I go on, “I understand why you’re upset, and for that, I apologize. I really mean it.”
“I’m just curious about something – how do you do it?” she starts. “How do you sleep at night knowing you’re sentencing a lot of these people to a life on the street?”
The question takes me aback somewhat, but before I have to answer, the waitress arrives with our meals. I inhale the garlicky aroma of my clam and shrimp alfredo and smile. Vito’s has the best alfredo sauce
