Page 23 of Forty, Flirty & Fired

8

THE DINNER DEAL

ALEX

There's a certain energy to Seattle in the evening, particularly when the autumn rain gives way to clear, crisp skies. Tonight, the city lights shimmer beneath us through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Canlis, where I've carefully selected a table that offers both privacy and a view that could justify the eye-watering prices on the menu.

I check my watch—a Swiss movement I rarely notice the value of anymore—as I take another sip of the Macallan 25.

It's nearly 7:15, and Mackenzie Gallo is precisely fifteen minutes late to our business dinner. Fifteen minutes that I've spent wondering if she'd actually show, or if this was some elaborate ploy to leave me sitting alone at a table for two.

Considering our stormy history, I wouldn't entirely blame her.

My phone buzzes with a text from Grayson.

GRAYSON:So, did corporate culture consultant stand you up, or are you already breaking the bachelor pact under the table?

I ignore it, setting my phone face down as the maître d' approaches.

"Mr. Drake," he says, "Ms. Gallo has arrived."

And then she's there, striding toward the table with the same confidence that had her throwing champagne in my face at that gala.

Her dark curls are loose tonight, framing her face in a way that softens her usual corporate armor. She's wearing a deep burgundy dress that makes her skin glow in the restaurant's dim lighting. For a moment, I’m caught off-guard by how different she looks outside the office.

I stand as she approaches, another reflex from the old money manners my mother drilled into me before she left.

"Ms. Gallo.” I deftly pull out her chair. "I was beginning to think I'd be drinking alone tonight."

"Traffic," she says, settling into her seat. "And I considered it. Standing you up, I mean."

A waiter materializes, offering the wine list. Before I can take it, Mac raises an eyebrow.

"I assume you've already selected something obscenely expensive to establish dominance?"

I fight back a smile. "The '82 Sassicaia," I confirm to the waiter, who nods.

"Of course, sir. Excellent choice."

When he leaves, Mac leans forward. "You do realize I can identify a power play from across the city, right?"

"It's not a power play to appreciate fine wine."

"It is when you select it before your dining companion arrives." She unfolds her napkin with a snap. "Let me guess—you also pre-ordered appetizers you think I'll like after having Emma research my preferences?"

The corner of my mouth jerks. "I considered it."

"But?"

"But I decided that would be too obvious."

She actually laughs at that. "Well, at least you're self-aware about your control issues."

"I prefer to think of it as thorough preparation."

"Spoken like a true micromanager."

The sommelier arrives with the wine, initiating the ritual that I've performed hundreds of times at business dinners. Mac watches with barely concealed amusement as I inspect the label, approve the uncorking, swirl, sniff, and taste the ruby liquid.

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