Sunday passed by at an arthritic snail's pace. Although Ali couldn't avoid questions about her day at the fair—the outing was public knowledge in a matter of hours— she kept both that goodbye kiss and her upcoming date a secret from even Pete and Wylda. Even so, nothing she did could take her mind off seeing Hank again, and her inattentiveness quickly drew suspicions.
"Well, are you in or not?" Pete nudged her at the lunch table.
She looked up from arranging the peas on her plate into a neat line. "Sorry, what?"
"Sailing this afternoon?" He emphasized each word separately. "Do you want to go?"
She was happy he was talking to her—or anyone else for that matter—and worried that a rejection would stall his progress. "Sure," she said, looking at her watch: eighteen past one.
While there were nearly six more hours to go, her intentions to humor Pete still almost cost Ali her plans with Hank.
Skippering the sailboat on the placid mountain lake was a welcome distraction until the rigging broke and left them out on the water for much longer than she had calculated. The delay only allowed for a quick shower, and Ali ended up running in her heels and zebra-print halter dress to avoid missing her ride. She caught her breath on the drive while touching up her makeup in the backseat, and as they pulled up to the curb in front of the tall redbrick building, her date was already there waiting.
Her date. The word sent a wave of excitement over her as she caught a glimpse of him. Wearing a perfectly tailored suit and tie—and without the cowboy hat for the first time—Hank looked like he'd just stepped out of a corporate boardroom instead of a pickup truck. Ever the gentleman, he opened the cab door and slid the fare to the driver before Ali even realized what he'd done. Taking her hand and helping her out, he smiled as his eyes traveled down her body.
"You look amazing," he said before planting a delicate kiss on her cheek.
Recalling their much more heated encounter from last night, Ali shivered in anticipation of how this evening could end.
"Thank you. You too," she said, unable to contain her grin when he placed a hand at the small of her back and led her down the sidewalk, up three steps, and through the revolving door.
"I hope you like this place," he said as they stepped into a large atrium running the full eight stories. Open hallways decorated in a soft glow of golds and reds circled each floor, giving the place an air of classic opulence. "It's a fairly well-known hotel in its own right, but the restaurant is definitely one of the best in the city."
"It's lovely," Ali agreed, acutely aware of the looks some of the other patrons—men and women alike—were giving her date as they walked through the reception area. She smiled in satisfaction, knowing that at least for the next few hours his attention would solely be on her.
The dining area, tucked into a separate room in the back corner and lit mostly with sconces and candles, was warm and intimate. Dark wood and maroon leather added to the luxurious atmosphere, and the tuxedo-wearing host promptly led them to a semicircular booth. Without waiting for the wine list, Hank ordered a bottle of Pinot Noir as they slid onto the bench.
"Since you're familiar with the place, I imagine you must eat here often?" Ali asked as she opened her menu.
"Not really," Hank said as he unbuttoned his jacket and shifted in his spot, making himself more comfortable. "But our parents used to bring us here for special occasions when we were kids, so I have fond memories of it."
He'd brought her to a place that was special to him—one with a personal connection—and on their first date, at that. Ali placed the menu back on the table and smiled. This was an excellent start, indeed.
"You grew up in the area?" she asked, hoping she could ease into finding out more.
"Yes, I did. But what about you?" He skillfully—and quickly— turned the conversation toward her. If she didn't know better, she would have thought he had something to hide. "Have you lived in New York all of your life?"
"How did you know I'm from New York?" She tilted her head and playfully pursed her red lips. She didn't wear the bold color often, but the contrast was a perfect complement to her otherwise black-and-white attire. "You also mentioned it at the bar last week. You didn't read my file, did you?"
"Of course not. That would be unethical," he said in all earnestness before softening his expression. "I asked Harriet."
Although she was mostly joking, Ali felt relief at the disclosure. "I thought maybe working at Pebble Creek gave you access to my personal information."
He moved around again, settling into a spot where his knee lightly touched hers. After also unnecessarily adjusting the cutlery, he finally looked up. "Even if it did, I wouldn't have made use of that privilege."
The statement's bluntness made her uneasy, and Ali glanced away. The affection a couple at the adjacent table was showing each other wasn't any less unsettling, and she cleared her throat.
"I like her. Harriet, that is. Asking her was quite smart," she said. Taking a deep breath, she turned back to Hank. "And to answer your question, I guess it depends on what you consider New York. I was raised on the eastern part of Long Island, but I've lived in Manhattan since college."
Before she could try again to ask about his background, the sommelier arrived with the bottle of California red. After pouring a sample into her companion's glass and getting a nod of approval, the man filled both glasses before leaving.
"To a nice meal with nice company," Hank said as he raised his glass in a toast. Ali did the same and took a sip of the fruity beverage. It was an excellent choice but clearly a strong vintage. Knowing her low tolerance for alcohol and not wanting to repeat her embarrassment at the bar, she left most for later. Hank wasn't as cautious, emptying his glass in just a few gulps.
"Tell me more about yourself." He poured himself another serving.
She watched a droplet slide down the bottle's neck. "What do you want to know?"
"Everything, but let's start with something easy," he said as he picked up a folded napkin, shook it apart, and draped it in his lap. "How about what you do for a living?"
"Really? That's what you want to know first?" Ali caressed the stem of her glass with an index finger. She'd hoped to avoid this question for as long as possible. "It's the Twenty-first Century. Is the way we earn our living really an appropriate way to define a person?"
"Of course not. But if you do happen to have an unconventional occupation, like, let's say, a stripper—excuse me, exotic dancer—don't worry." He winked. "I can live with that."
The ease with which he shifted between levity and seriousness was both endearing and unnerving. Figuring out Hank Mathis was going to be harder than she'd thought. Needing the drink's strength after all, Ali took another sip. "No, I'm not a stripper, but I appreciate your open-mindedness. Truly."
He continued to look at her, unflinching and obviously still waiting for an answer.
Ali adjusted the bracelet on her good wrist. She'd hoped the new purchase would distract from the pink monstrosity on the other, but the two in concert made her feel like she was bound in shackles. "I work in an investment firm," she said without fanfare.
"Investments? Like stocks and stuff?" he asked, drawing his dark brows up in surprise.
She nodded, recalling the watered-down explanation she'd rehearsed countless times with distant relatives and casual acquaintances. "Yes, we deal with stocks, mutual funds, bonds, and various other long-term assets."
Faint laugh lines appeared at the corners of his lips. "So you're a broker like Dave?"
She scoffed at the comparison. "First of all, the infamous Dave deals exclusively in commodities and betting against their future worth. It's basic supply and demand for things like grain, livestock, gold, and a variety of other tangible assets. The investment field is based on partial ownership and current profit sharing."
"Now you've completely lost me." He grabbed his glass and took a restrained sip.
"Okay," Ali said with a sigh as she reached for her napkin. "So when you think of stocks, you think of Wall Street and the trading floor, right? Quick turnaround. Buy low, sell high. That sort of thing."
He nodded.
"Companies like mine work more long-term on our clients' behalf to maximize their profits. We reinvest . . ." She trailed off, noticing Hank's gaze had shifted from her eyes to her lips. "You're really not interested in any of this."
"No, I totally am. It's just I'm also quite amazed by how you keep getting more and more fascinating." He grinned, displaying a mouthful of perfectly straight teeth. "Just when I think I have you figured out, you reveal another unexpected aspect of yourself."
Ali self-consciously touched the back of her head, smoothing out any loose strands in her casual updo. "There's not much else, so please don't set me up for failure."
"I wouldn't dream of it. But please, go on," he said as he leaned back and motioned with his long fingers. Although his knee was no longer touching hers, he'd shifted his foot to keep contact. "What exactly do you do in this investment firm?"
"I court nonnatives." She used Foxhall's in-house slang, but as soon as the words left her lips, Ali threw her hands up defensively at what could have easily been misconstrued as a slur. "No, that's not what it sounds like. I scout new business opportunities to bring money from abroad into the US investment market."
"That's exactly what courting nonnatives sounded like," Hank said with a laugh, obviously enjoying her flummoxed state. "And may I ask how you got into this line of work?"
"I studied economics at Yale—"
"Impressive." He crossed his arms and gave an approving nod even before she finished.
"Well, yes. I suppose," Ali said. "I wanted a useful degree, and philosophy never interested me."
He chuckled at her joke. "Good one." His shoe tapped hers—whether accidentally or on purpose—making Ali's pulse accelerate.
Their waiter returned. "Are you ready to order?" he asked.
Her cheeks flushed as if she'd been caught doing something she shouldn't have been. "Oh. I haven't even looked at the menu," Ali admitted.
"Do you like steak?" Hank leaned forward, pointing halfway down the leather-bound card stock. "They have an amazing filet mignon I'd recommend."
"That sounds great. Medium rare, please." She handed the menu to the waiter.
"I'll have the same," Hank said, and waited until they were alone again. "You were telling me about Yale."
"Yes." Ali smoothed out the tablecloth in front of her to regain her train of thought. "So I was almost done with my freshman year in New Haven when my mother happened to be chatting with the father of one of her patients. She's an orthodontist, by the way," she added, seeing his puzzled expression. "Anyway, this parent was complaining about how lazy and unskilled my generation was and how hard it was to recruit good employees at the Manhattan investment firm he managed."
Hank scoffed but didn't comment, so Ali took a big breath and continued.
"Mom, being ever vigilant for a good opportunity, mentioned how I was looking for an internship in that exact field—which of course I wasn't—and he gave her his contact info." She picked up her glass again, swirling its remaining contents around. "Long story short, I spent the next three summers at Foxhall. They even got me a practicum at a bank in Athens when I was on study abroad."
"Oh?" He placed his hand on the table, lightly traced his finger along the curve of her thumb. "How was that?"
"Seeing the Greek financial system implode from within?" she asked, trying to keep her voice even at the unexpected caress. "I guess, eye-opening?"
Lowering his gaze to where their hands were still touching, Hank suddenly pulled away and adjusted his tie, as if he'd caught himself doing something he shouldn't have been. "That got you your foot in the door, but it sounds like what you do now is fairly important. How did you get from intern to . . . what's your current position, exactly?" he asked with what felt like forced interest.
Ali winced. Saying it now felt like such a brag, but . . . "Assistant vice president for international initiatives."
"Wow." Hank's look of surprise fell into the usual range of reactions. "Oh, wow. That's quite impressive. So, intern to AVP in just a few years? Let me know if I'm prying, but I'm curious as to how that's possible."
"Apart from me being good at my job?" she asked as she squared her shoulders, both annoyed and disappointed that he didn't think of her with more regard.
Hank tugged at his collar, his discomfort evident as he avoided her eyes. "I didn't mean to imply otherwise. Forgive me if I sounded like I did."
She reached across the table, purposefully touching his fingers in hopes of making him more comfortable again. They were soft and warm, and Hank's inviting gaze as he looked up emboldened her.
"I'm teasing—sort of. And you're right; my career path has been quite unusual," she said just as he reached for his wine. "All I had to do for it was kill my boss."