Page 40 of Making It While Faking It
About an hour later, we’re seated around the table. Hercules’s penthouse is almost an exact replica of Achilles’s, only this place has more of a sterile contemporary vibe with its stark white furniture and contrasting black decorative pieces. I’m certain Paisley had no problem adapting to the decor. Her tastes also lean toward what’s presented.
The elevator ride up was torturous. Achilles was standing so close while we both kept our focus pinned to the upward counting numbers. I had no idea what was going on inside his brain, but I struggled to keep my breaths fluid while managing to appear calm. But my insides reeled from the pronounced attraction that I’ve been feeling toward him lately. I keep reminding myself that he’s a good-looking man—any woman would give him a second and third glance. However, we can never get naked and do it, and we’ll never be friends. As a matter of fact, I’m one hundred percent sure that he’ll soon do or say something tonight that will remind me that he is a certified asshole. That always brings me back to my senses.
Dinner started promptly. It has been reported the city is in the crosshairs of a fast-moving superstorm. Barbara Townsend and catering staff must leave in less than two hours. So instead of six courses, we’ll have three.
It’s not just the four of us either. I was pleasantly surprised to see that Lake and her fiancé, Mason, have joined us. The appropriate greetings were made with hugs, handshakes, and double kisses. I told Mason that it was great to finally meet him. However, his health difficulties that Lake has been supporting him through are obvious in his appearance. His black hair is such a jarring contrast to his sickly pale skin. And he’s very thin, not in a healthy kind of way but in a skin-hugging-his-bones kind of way.
I noticed, too, that when Achilles shook Mason’s hand and then drew him in for an extra hug, he appeared jarred by Mason’s physical condition. I do detect empathy emanating from Achilles.Damn it.That’s not a quality that makes me dislike him, and I need to dislike him.
The table is set differently than it was at Xan and Heart’s house. Men are seated on one side of the table and women on the other. So at one end, Paisley is across from Hercules, who’s in the kitchen chatting with Barbara Townsend. Mason sits across from Lake, who’s on my right. Achilles is seated across from me. I wonder if I preferred it when he sat beside me, because now I have an unobstructed view of his perfectly handsome face.
Paisley has asked Lake about her upcoming gallery, which will feature a piece they collaborated on. As Lake talks about the computerized portion of the abstract art, it doesn’t occur to me that Achilles and I are staring at each other until he sits back in his chair and folds his arms.
Shit. I glance down at my plate as my heart beats like crazy.What just happened?
Thankfully, Hercules reenters, stealing all of our attention, and announces that dinner will start now.
Chef Barbara Townsend, barely five feet tall with keen eyes that threaten to show you who’s boss if she must, stands at the head of the table, wearing a white chef’s coat and hat. A flash of envy blushes through me as she makes her announcement.
First course:New England snow crab cake topped with roasted corn and red pepper ceviche.
The food is beautifully plated.I inhale before I dig in. It smells divine, and the first bite sticks the landing. Sounds of enjoyment swim leisurely through the air. Barbara, who is totally satisfied, bows and leaves us to our conversation, which quickly assumes a feverish pitch.
Mason talks about how the union between Hercules and Paisley has changed the mood at Lord Technical Innovations.
Achilles looks like he’s chewing on lemons instead of Barbara’s unbeatable crab cake. It’s clear he doesn’t want to have a conversation about their company with me, the Benedict Arnold, at the table.
“That’s where the two of you met, right?” I ask to politely change the subject. “LTI?”
“Yes, it was,” Mason says enthusiastically.
“Ooh, tell me how it happened,” I say with an expression formed by intrigue. I take my second bite of the melt-in-your-mouth first course and simultaneously sense that Achilles has relaxed a bit. He’ll probably never trust me.
Lake insists on telling the story of how she spent years trying to win his attention, similarly to all the other girls he dated within the company.
“The rumor was that he was cute but boring, and I thought, perfect, because I’m exciting!”
Her cute sense of humor lands her the perfect amount of laughter. Even Achilles lets one escape.
She says how a week before last Christmas, she invited him to her art exhibit and was surprised he showed up, even though he brought a buffer.
Hercules raises a hand. “That would be me.”
Paisley and Lake chuckle.
“He didn’t even know I was an artist,” Lake says.
“And I sure as hell didn’t know she was as popular as she is,” Mason says. “But it made a lot of sense. She’s a killer interface designer.”
“That night, the night of my show, I ditched my own exhibit, and we went on an adventure.”
“Through Central Park,” Mason adds.
We all watch as they gaze adoringly into each other’s eyes.
“It was…” Mason sounds choked up. “All the contours and textures of that night—I’ll literally take them to my grave.” He appears to force his eyes off the woman he loves and focuses solely on Hercules. “Which will be sooner than we thought.”
A smile gradually fades from Hercules’s lips as servers enter to collect the plates, but Paisley wisely waves them away and puts her hands together in prayer, signaling to the head server she’s thankful for how quickly he sent the others out of the room.
