Page 7 of Van Cort
I look at the waiter, then choose for her, deciding on foie gras for starters and the chicken for mains. We’ll see about the dessert depending on how bored I am or how frisky she is.
“Drink? I ask.
“White wine, please. Anything but chardonnay.”
I order her a Chablis and a club soda for me.
“Not drinking again?”
“I don’t.”
“Not ever?”
“Not anymore. We don’t mix particularly well together.”
“Alcohol? And you?” I nod. “I’m not sure it mixes well with anyone, does it?” I don’t elaborate. “Right. Well, thank you,” she says, handing the menu over.
“That’s the second time someone said that to me today. I didn’t deserve it the first time, and I’m doubtful ordering your food deserves it either. I appreciate the manners, though.”
“Why didn’t you deserve the first one?”
“He should have got another three or four million out of me. The deal was worth more.”
“That’s a lot of money to lose. What was it for?”
“Warehousing and land. He got himself into trouble. You’ll take what you can get when you’re in trouble.” The waiter arrives with our drinks, quietly placing them down before disappearing again.
“You don’t seem like the type to have ever gotten yourself into enough trouble to know that,” she says, looking at me as she picks up her wine.
I snort, amused at her quick comeback. “Not recently, at least.” She flicks her hair over her shoulder and fidgets, looking around the room rather than at me. “Everyone gets into trouble early on. You screw up, get something wrong, do something you regret. It’s what teaches you how to not get into trouble again.” She stares at me, still sipping her wine with those rather luscious lips. “Anyway, how was your day? Crashed any weddings lately?” She smiles and laughs.
“Not today, no. And nowhere near as exciting as yours, I would think. Just work.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a financial analyst. I study market data and trends to advise my clients. Some are more complex than others, especially if they have an investment portfolio.”
I listen, unusually interested given her actual work ethic. She’s animated as she talks, as if this topic of analytics is riveting to her. Too many of these kinds of preludes to fucking end up with the woman having no work ethic at all. They shop, or they spend their hours with beauty appointments and pointlessmeanderings. My gaze drops to her calf as the napkin falls from the table, lapping its way along her skin. Lean, taut. Elegant. It’ll feel smooth over my shoulder.
The food arrives, and we both carry on conversing cordially. It’s becoming more like a business meeting than a date, considering our aligned financial mentality. Not that it is a date, but I do like to try differentiating. She’s smart, which makes for a dynamic change in my life when it comes to this sort of thing. She asks questions of me, interesting ones, and she listens intently as though she’s trying to learn. I’m unsure whether that's about me or my company, given her profession.
At some point, the starters are cleared, and the mains arrive. I’ve been too talkative to notice, which is unusual for me. It could be that this business conversation makes her more relevant to me.
But now she seems to be attempting to prove herself in some way, as if my stature demands some try on her part. She really doesn’t need to. It’s not her mind I’m interested in, despite her continued impressive mental behaviour. One night. One fuck. Maybe a blow job if she’s not too prim to get on her knees for it.
“Have you always lived in Seattle?” she asks, in an abrupt change of direction.
I close my cutlery, having finished my food. “No. The main company structure has always been here, though.”
“Why did you start it here?” I look at her mouth, more interested than ever in putting something in it.
My lips twitch. “I didn’t. My great-great-great-grandfather did. Actually, maybe his before him.”
“Ah. Generational wealth.”
“Yes.”
“That must be nice. My parents are lovely, but they don’t have much. I expect we had very different upbringings.” Yes. But atleast she has parents. Both of mine are dead. “Although I was fortunate to go to Berkeley. Where did you go?”
