You can’t tell who’s going to be a snorer, or who sleeps in an ungraceful posture, or who’s going to wake up looking like a completely different person than you went to bed with the night before. The morning light always tells the tale.
Steph is still sleeping as I sit up and rub my eyes, and she is beautiful. She looks like a study for a marble statue to be carved by Michelangelo, all graceful limbs and alabaster skin. She is lying on her side, facing me. The sheet has ridden down her side and exposes the top of one creamy hip.
Her breathing is deep and steady. She is still fast asleep. I lay back down and drink her in, her face, her hair, her body.
I don’t know how much time goes by, but it’s enough that I’m able to tell that the sunlight coming through the bay windows is brightening as it shines its glow across the bed. It’s as though it is spotlighting her in a slow pan for my gratification.
Maybe ten minutes passes, or maybe it’s an hour, and then she begins to stir. Eyes still closed, she stretches her arms and hunches her shoulders, her head tilted to one side. She makes a mew of contentment.
“Good morning,” I say.
Her eyes open. They are hazel, like polished exotic stones. They find me and slip shut again as she smiles.
“Yes,” she replies. “It is.”
“Did you sleep all right?” I ask her, tracing a finger lightly along her shoulder.
She shivers a little. “Like I’d been clubbed over the head. You?”
“Better than I have in a long time.”
She shuffles herself closer to me, burrowing into my side.
“It is still Sunday today, right?” she asks.
“Yep. And a much better one than last week’s, I might add.”
She frowns a little. “I should go. I have to get to work.”
“On a Sunday morning?”
She nods, her hair tickling my chest. “The restaurant business never sleeps. I have planning and prep work to do for tomorrow. Emails to answer. Menus to finalize.”
“Sounds like you’re going to be pretty busy.”
“I have a feeling you empathize with me.”
“You do?”
“I do. You’d probably gone into the weekend planning on working today, too. Am I right?”
“Well,” I say. “Okay, you got me…I did intend on going into the office this morning.”
She chuckles. “Another resident of the mines, it sounds like. Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to work we go.” She sighs and settles back under the covers. “Trust me; I really don’t want to go in.”
“Things you’d rather do?” I ask, brushing the hair off her forehead.
“Yes,” she says. “Things.”
I think for a moment. “Okay, how about this—I’ll change my schedule around, go in later this afternoon. That way, I can take you out to lunch.”
She blinks at me. “You can do that?”
I shrug. “I’m the boss. I can do whatever I want.”
“Must be nice to rule over your domain like that.”
“Says the queen of three kitchens,” I add. She swats my shoulder playfully.
“You have a date, Mr. Stone,” she says and slips from beneath the sheets.
I give Curtis instructions to drive Steph home. He plays it cool, offering her a pleasant, “Good morning, Ms. White,” before leading her out and away.
I amble into the kitchen for a coffee. Curtis has already not only brewed a fresh batch, but he’s also cleared away all of the leftover materials from Steph’s cooking last night. I feel the briefest stab of guilt at the waste they must have gone to—when I was just starting out, that kind of neglect would have been unthinkable—then realize it had been a paltry sacrifice for the evening I had enjoyed.
The coffee, brown sugar bourbon, is strong, just the way I like it, and it begins sharpening my senses almost immediately. Time to plan the day.
I’m making a few notes in my planner when my phone rings. It’s Scott, following up on Tomasso’s impromptu visit to Steph’s restaurant.
“He gave her a rave review,” Scott informs me. He sounds incredulous. “This is not a man who raves over anything except how disappointed he is in something.”
“I’m glad he had such a good experience. I understand he has surgery coming up. Find out where and send him a get-well package for me, will you?”
“Thinking of retaining his services again, are you?”
“I’m thinking that if his word is the gold standard, and his word on…White is a good one, he may be inclined to use said good word on another occasion, one that might be advantageous to her.”
“I’m confused,” Scott says. “You were clearly out to dynamite the woman’s reputation and now you’re talking about helping her?”
“There was no dynamiting intended.”
“Well, you wanted her at least chewed on a little bit, otherwise you wouldn’t have hired a pit bull.”
“I can have a change of heart, can’t I? Look, just send something nice to Tomasso’s hospital room. You above all people know it never hurts to look after your contacts.”
“Just as you like, Trent. Anything else?”
I briefly consider directing him to send some flowers to Steph’s home address, even though she and I will be seeing each other later today anyway. I decide against it. I feel like doing it myself, rather than having one of my people handle it.
“No,” I say. “That’s it. Thanks, Scott. Let me know what you put together.”
“Always do,” he replies and hangs up.
I search up the top florist on my phone and am on the verge of calling when I stop. As long as I’m doing things that, according to Scott’s implication, are out of character for myself, I might as well keep
