If the staff hadn't been stationed along the path, handing out champagne, I don't know what I would have done. Jumped the hedges and bolted for my car, maybe. The sparkling alcohol steadied my nerves, and by flute number three, the bubbles lulled me into a hazy trance. On top of that, I clutched the spider plushie like a child clings to a toy—a flimsy excuse not to hold his arm.
At least we were in the fresh air now. That gave me an excuse to drift away, to breathe in the fragrance of the exotic blooms instead of his cologne. I even slipped down another short flight of stone steps to reach more flowers, half-distracted, half-fleeing. For some strange reason, I didn't want him to think I was uncomfortable—though another voice in me shouted, Who cares? This is Fabrizi, for God's sake.
"Those are your favorite? I thought it was roses," he called from the terrace above.
"Yes, but these smell nice too."
How the hell does he know roses are my favorite? It's not a detail I go around broadcasting.
The garden stroll stayed quiet, though my brain spun in overdrive—trying to come up with excuses of why I was here and why he was suddenly in a vibrant green suit. Eventually we drifted toward other small exhibitions near the main building. Relief washed over me just at the sight of the exit ahead—and at the fact he hadn't grabbed my hand again. Lights glowed around potted plants and architectural corners, but dawn still shrouded the sky in a dim veil. I couldn't help noticing how closely he walked, like a frightened child hiding behind his mother.
If I'm right, what is he so afraid of?
"Mr. Fabrizi," I whispered. "Are you okay?"
"Hm? Perfect, actually. Don't you think everything's perfect? I thought you liked this place?"
"Yes," I answered, still suspicious of his actions.
The technology exhibit caught his attention. He stayed transfixed at the sight of the various old cameras and reels locked behind plexiglass. It made sense; he never struck me as much of an art guy. As he stayed looking at the devices, I lingered back, studying him.
"Marcie," he said suddenly, snapping me out of my thoughts.
"Yes, Mr. Fabrizi?"
"Which camera is your favorite? I never realized how many there are. And please—call me Ennio. We're not at work."
I opened my mouth, but my own question pressed first.
"En—" I coughed. "Ennio, is there something I missed? What's going on today?"
He looked at me like my question was absurd. But it wasn't. Anyone sane would be confused. Then again—Ennio—is his own breed.
"Well," he said, stepping away from the case, "you've worked hard for me for a decade. I haven't thanked you properly. So . . . this is your farewell gift."
Finally! The cat is out of the goddamn bag. Why couldn't he have just said that from the start?
The tension drained from me in an instant. My body eased, my thoughts settled. We didn't linger in the exhibit long; he followed my lead back to a catwalk connecting to another gallery.
The Baroque art room pulled me in like magic, the 17th-century canvases alive with gowns and gilded threads. I studied a painted woman's dress, already imagining the print reimagined on trousers. So intent was I that I barely noticed his presence hovering behind me—close, not too close, but enough.
"What are you looking at?"
"The woman's dress," I said softly. "I'd like to use her prints on pants one day."
He nodded and drifted to another canvas, as if he understood.
This man thinks in shades of gray when it comes to clothes. What does he know about patchwork or florals? Yet here he is, draped in green.
"So you like prints like these," he asked across the empty room.
I crossed to him, studying the piece. "Yes. Florals especially. I love them on pants."
"Hm. So you use art for inspiration."
"Exactly. It was my gateway into fashion when I was young. Every era has its shifts in design."
"I hated art when I was young. My brother and his friends teased me for drawing—said it was for girls. The irony? He runs Style Sphere now, designing for his fashion house. Always been a liar and a piece of shit."
That startled me. He never spoke of his brother like that. Actually, he never really mentioned him unless an arrival at Sera Elganza demanded it—and even that was rare.
"Forget that," he said abruptly, coughing. "Let's head outside."
Fine by me. The walking had worn me down. We stopped at a railing overlooking the gardens, the horizon bleeding with the first golds of sunrise.
"The sun's coming up," I sighed. "It's beautiful when the colors break through."
"It's very pretty," he murmured.
Our eyes met. I broke first, shy for reasons I couldn't name.
Ten years I've seen this man's face, nine hours a day, sometimes weekends too. Why am I reacting like this? My body and mind weren't in sync. Then I caught his glance at the plushie clutched to my chest—and realized he'd noticed I was cold.
"Here," he said, shrugging off his green jacket.
Before I could protest, he draped it over me. My breath came shallow, uneven. I turned around, walked ahead, feigning readiness to leave, and refusing to thank him with my tongue tangled in my throat.
"There's a spot in West L.A. we can go for breakfast," he called out.
Breakfast? I probably can't even keep water down right now.
"Oh, actually—I think I'll head home. But thank you. Truly—this is the greatest gift I've ever received from a boss."
"I know," he said smugly.
There's the Fabrizi I recognize.
"So . . . yes, I think I'll be going now."
He followed me out and we took the tram down together. He sat and I stood, staring at houses I'd tried to glimpse at earlier, now visible in dawn's pale wash. Suddenly a thought hit me.
You stupid fool.
That questionnaire Ms. Fallon pressed on me wasn't random. It was a setup for this. The whole thing might as well have been titled What's Your Perfect Date?
I shuffled away, grateful he was distracted by his phone. At the bottom, he waved a final farewell—or so I thought. His shadow lingered behind me, smug smile intact when I glanced back.
"Yes?" I said flatly, hand on my car door.
"Did you want to—"
"Go on a sunrise drive," I muttered, finishing for him.
That had been my first answer on that stupid questionnaire.
"That survey—was it you that gave it to Ms. Fallon to pass to me?"
He froze, then nodded.
"I only wanted to give you what you wanted."
"Well, thank you for the effort," I said, blinking away.
Honestly (not that I care because it's him), if a guy wants to get to know me, find out by asking me. Not by listing a hundred questions on a stupid PDF.
I opened my door, but he stopped me.
"It was worth it. Because you are—Marcie."
"Well, it doesn't change my mind about breakfast. But . . . I appreciate everything."
It was, after all, the kindest gesture he'd shown me in a decade. I was halfway into my car when I realized I still wore his jacket. The silence swelled thick as I climbed back out and fumbled it off. Then, in one sudden step, he was before me, tugging me close by the suit's front.
"Keep it. Bring it back when you return to work—if you want."
For a fleeting second, I thought I saw a sparkle in his eyes.
No. I'm imagining this. And I need to stop.
For whatever reason, I couldn't look back up at him. Instead, I watched as he started buttoning me up in his suit; solidifying the statement for me to keep it.
This is weird. This is all so weird. I can't take this anymore! I rather him be arrogant, unlikeable, robotic and a prick than—this. My brain screamed to look up—and just in time. My brain screamed to look up—and oh my fucking gosh—just in time! His face was leaning closer, fingertips brushing my cheek. Survival instincts surged. I had one weapon—the plushie. I smashed the spider into his face before his lips could find mine.
"Since I have your jacket, you keep the plushie. Fair deal," I blurted faster than an auctioneer.
Then I dove into my car, slammed the door, and sped off—cursing myself the whole drive for how unraveled I had become.