I walk past him into the hallway, my body still humming from the wine and his proximity and the impossible tension of whatever this is between us.
As we make our way toward the private dining room, his hand finds my lower
back again.
This time, I don't even pretend to mind.
————
The investors love me. Most of them do it in appropriate ways—although, per Andrew's warning, Harold Fitzgerald (bow tie with sailboats printed on it, leering eyes, every bit as creepy as advertised) does corner me near the cheese table to explain the difference between Old World and New World wines while his gaze drifts repeatedly to my chest.
I nod and make impressed noises, all the while mentally calculating how hard I'd have to stomp on his Italian loafers to break a toe.
"You simply must see my cellar," he's saying, one liver-spotted hand reaching toward my elbow. "I have a 1943 Cheval Blanc that would make you weep."
