Page 5 of Dead Set on You
“You should be more than fine,” he says.
The suspicion sinks in as Rafael leans forward, features turning conspiratorial, and his scent—aftershave and sandalwood—envelops us. “All we have to do is show Cyril a good time, and it’s in the bag.”
“It’s in the bag? Who says that?” I ask, leaning away from him and his stupidly distracting scent with an annoyed groan. I need to stay on my A game and not let whatever he’s doing throw me off. “In fact, it would be really helpful if you didn’t talk. Not that you even needed to come tonight.”
“And let you have all the fun?”
“Fun?” I almost choke. “This isn’t one of your mom-and-pop accounts you can joke your way through. Everything is on the line.” Our boss’s approval. A sizable commission. A chance to slow down. “Do you even—”
“Bonsoir!” Cyril’s accented voice interrupts before I can ensure Rafael gets it.
We stand to greet Cyril—kisses on each cheek—before we settle into our seats. Rafael in front of me. Cyril to my left. The wineglass within sipping distance.
“You look lovely tonight, Evie,” Cyril says, undoing the buttons of his jacket.
“Thank you.” I offer him a strained smile. Rafael’s appears on demand.
“You too, Raf,” Cyril adds, slapping Rafael on the shoulder. My gut cinches at their familiarity—their bromance, which budded on day one—but I keep my features smooth and friendly, focusing on Cyril, a picture of French elegance with styled blond hair and a neat beard. His eyes, like the sky on a cloudless day, are always assessing and calculating and doing none of the things Rafael’s dark-brown eyes do.
Anxiety returning tenfold, I silently pray Cyril goes for the wine quickly so I can follow suit, calm my nerves, and get to Pitch-Perfect Checklist item #1 before #3 has a chance to compromise things.
The server arrives before any wine sipping happens.
I order on the table’s behalf as Cyril and Rafael ease into friendly conversation. Rafael is Cyril’s favorite, even if I’m the one who scoured the internet and dabbled in some light social media stalking of the CEO, learning as much as I could about him, his business, France, and anything that could remotely impact the future of our working relationship. But Rafael? Rafael bothered with none of this, save for the parts tied to OhLaLove and the online dating market. Yet here they are—fast friends, chatting away about a soccer (football!) match, and I feel like I’m two steps behind.
I take a sip of my wine, then another, and breathe out—one Mamma Mia. It’s time to get control of things and cross the finish line. But I need Rafael to do that.
As if I’ve summoned him with my thoughts, Rafael looks at me. Cyril follows.
“Sorry—Raf and I could talk about football all night,” Cyril says with a chuckle.
I force a smile. “No need to apologize. Rafael is our in-house sports expert. He must have mentioned he played at Loyola,” I say, not missing the surprise in Rafael’s eyes. Keep your potential clients close and your enemies closer.
“I might have mentioned it once or twice,” Rafael says, his gaze lingering on me—knowing exactly how many times he’s talked about Loyola and what it’s meant to him, to his family. I look away.
Cyril twists the stem of his wineglass. “But knowing you, Evie, you’ve probably got a list of things to discuss so we can get to the numbers you mentioned in your email.”
I laugh, breezy and brittle, as his implication hits me in the solar plexus. But checklist item #1 is at the top of the menu, and I need to do what I came here to do: close the deal.
Shooting one lastBehave or elselook toward my nemesis, I set my palms on the table, take a deep breath, and start the last pitch.
As I run through it—between sips of wine and nibbles of appetizers—Rafael chimes in, without interrupting or attempting to steal the show. In fact, each time he offers input, he looks to me to confirm it, and I have to mask my surprise the first time it happens. The second time, I’m prepared, and it’s like passing a baton in a relay, one he made no time to rehearse for despite my repeated attempts to role-play the dinner. Even so, the conversation runs smoothly. We navigate through some of Cyril’s tougher questions, steer around budget-focused topics, and race through to the end of our pitch.
While I don’t trust a moment of Rafael’s performance, I nearly squeal in relief. A grin slips out instead—and Rafael sees it. Winks at me. Makes my pulse spike.
I immediately sober, take another sip of wine, and turn to Cyril, eager for his response.
“Nothing less than I expected,” Cyril says, his features inscrutable as he leans back, relaxing.
I realize I’m barely breathing as I wait for him to say more, to tell us if Media Lab won his business, if I’m one step closer to getting the promotion.
Brow furrowing, Cyril turns his attention to Rafael, like he’s about to fire off a volley of questions.
Am I bothered he trusts Rafael to have the answers? A little bit. Am I fine with Rafael answering if it means getting the business? Yes, I have to be.
Cyril’s frown deepens. “You know, it’s been months of hearing about that tequila, Raf, and I’ve never had it. I think it’s about time.”
I blink, unsure if I’ve heard him correctly.Tequila? Now I’m the one frowning as I drag my shocked gaze from Cyril to Rafael, who shrugs nonchalantly.
