By some welcome twist of fate, I’m sitting next to Linny for lunch. The circular table was set for four, but Mitchell invited himself along once he got word from David’s assistant that a working lunch was going down at Calvetti’s.
I didn’t want him here.
I made that clear to David when I spoke to him this morning. This lunch was his idea, as was the restaurant choice.
After agreeing to meet at Calvetti’s at noon, I told David that I wanted Linny here, but I didn’t see any need to include Mitchell.
This is designed to be a casual meeting so we can discuss the broad scope of the upcoming campaign.
In other words, it’s a repeat of yesterday but with pasta.
Good pasta.
Judging by the look of pure satisfaction on Linny’s face, she thinks it’s great pasta.
Mitchell elbows me again which sends a drop of tomato sauce in motion. It flies from the rigatoni noodle on my fork onto my pristine tie; my three hundred dollar pristine light blue tie.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath as I reach to dab the spot with my napkin.
“No.” Linny shakes her head. “Don’t do that. You’re making it worse.”
How the hell can it get any worse?
My tie is ruined, they don’t serve Rizon vodka here, and my dick is painfully hard since the side of Linny’s thigh has been brushing against mine for the last thirty minutes.
Add to that the fact that Mitchell has monopolized the conversation with stories about his time working at an Italian restaurant in Brooklyn when he was in high school.
The guy is looking for a gold medal because he can toss pizza dough.
“We’ll cover the cost of having it dry cleaned,” Linny offers. “If you take it off, I’ll have it cleaned and back to your office by the end of the day.”
I look over at her, after quickly glancing at Mitchell who is muttering something under his breath. “You’ll bring it to my office by the end of the day?”
She shakes her head. “They can deliver.”
“Of course Linny will bring it to you,” David says, pointing at his daughter. “I’m responsible since pasta for lunch was my idea. Calvetti’s should have a warning on the menu about the collateral damage that can result from enjoying an order of baked rigatoni.”
I unknot my tie and slip it from around my neck. “I appreciate you doing this, Linny.”
She takes the tie when I slide it into her hands. “Of course, Mr. Weston. It’s the least we can do.”
She avoids eye contact, so I turn, but not before I catch a quick glimpse of her subtly raising the tie to
her face before she closes her eyes and inhales the scent.
Everyone else at the table would mistake it for her taking a closer look at the stain. I take it for what it is and that’s a reminder of my cologne.
It’s the same cologne I was wearing the night we fucked.
***
Ninety minutes later I glance down at my watch. “I’m going to need the name of your dry cleaner. He or she is a fucking wizard.”
“A wizard?” Linny looks at the black box in my hand.
“We left Calvetti’s an hour ago and you just brought me this.” I tip my chin toward the light blue silk tie that’s folded with care in the box.
“Oh.” Her mouth forms a perfect O-shape.