“Great. Mr. and Mrs. Serrano will see you then. We will send a car shortly,” said the assistant, who then hung up without saying goodbye.
“What in the…” I said with exasperation in my voice. “Dinner? Do clients normally take you all out to dinner?”
Porter rubbed his beard. “No. Clients may take Riddle and Robinson out once a project is over. But never the associates who are doing all the work.”
I looked at myself in the full-length mirror which hung on my small coat closet door in the office. I had on a silk shantung floral shirt, black pencil skirt, and heels. My coordinating blazer was on the chair. I didn’t look bad, but I certainly didn’t look ready for a dinner at one of Atlanta’s most exclusive restaurants. Porter stood behind me as I looked in the mirror.
“Well, I like what I’m seeing back here,” Porter said as he playfully bit down on his bottom lip. We were doing a great job of keeping it aboveboard at work, but Porter sometimes couldn’t help himself with a compliment here or thinly veiled innuendo there. I didn’t mind. If he knew the thoughts that crossed my mind, I’d be in trouble, too.
I put my hands on my hips, exasperated. “Porter! Come on! Be serious. I look like a librarian!”
“A sexy librarian?”
I shot Porter a look, and he threw up his hands. “I joke. You look fine, Ari. You look very chic and conservative. Luckily, I just threw this on.”
Porter had on brown slacks, a burgundy tie and blue pinstriped shirt. I deduced it was probably from Brooks Brothers or Zegna. If that was his version of “I just threw this on,” I hated him. He looked like a GQ model. He could wear a burlap sack and still look amazing.
“Well, do you think they want to dump us?” I asked.
“After the glowing reviews from his team these past weeks? Why would you think that?”
Porter folded his arms, looking at me confused.
“You know how a guy will take a girl out on a nice dinner, only to dump her at the end of the date? I’m just wondering if this is what this is. Ever done that?”
Porter replied, stone-faced. “I’ll neither confirm nor deny that I’ve used the dinner-and-dump tactic.”
“You’ve definitely done it.”
Porter’s face turned faintly red as he cleared his throat. “I highly doubt the Serranos are asking us to a four-course, prix fixe dinner to dump us ceremoniously. Maybe they just have questions or like what we’re doing. Shit, maybe it’s a tax write-off business dinner.”
“Or,” I interrupted, “they want to dump us.” My eyes widened into two giant saucers full of terror. I needed this job. I needed this project. It was one thing to be sacked by the firm, it was another to be sacked by the client. I’d never work in architecture again.
“Do you need me to kiss you again to calm you down?” asked Porter as he inched closer to me. I caught a whiff of his cologne and my stomach clenched.
I recoiled with a shriek. “No! God no! I’m fine.” Although, kissing and maybe a little more would calm me down. Orgasms have been scientifically proven to reduce stress. Porter, by all accounts, seemed like the type of man who really appreciated scientific inquiry.
“James, I’m not going to kiss you,” Porter laughed, putting a comforting arm around my shoulder. “You’re cute when you worry. I’ll get our coats.”
The darkly tinted Escalade pulled into the Star Provisions complex which housed the James Beard award-winning Bacchanalia. I knew this because it was all Porter the foodie could talk about on the drive over. He wanted to distract me with something, anything, other than worrying about the Serranos firing us. After hearing about their menu offerings for thirty minutes straight, I was regretting not asking for that kiss just to shut him up.
Porter opened the door to the dimly lit restaurant. We looked around. The hostess, bartender and some waitstaff were scurrying around like ants, clearly trying to take care of their high-profile patrons. Other than the employees, the place was empty.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I whispered to Porter. “Private dining at this restaurant?!” I clutched my handbag close to my side. This was some super baller shit.
“Yeah,” said Porter. “Luckily, it’s a weeknight. So, not too pricey, I’m sure.” Porter wasn’t that impressed. He must be used to dining this extravagantly. Trust Fund indeed.
We followed the hostess to a private room. As we entered, Paulo and his wife stood, the gorgeous brunette reaching out for a handshake. Porter obviously did not remember that Paulo Serrano was married, probably confusing him with his womanizing older brother, Marco. However, I’d learned in my research that Paulo had been married for eight years to his beautiful wife, Marina. Together, they had two small children, ages six and three.