Vivian sat on the leather ottoman in front of me. “When was the last time you went on a date?”
I let out a nervous laugh. “About two years?”
She was silent for a moment but didn’t seem all that shocked. “Remember how comfortable you were when I came to your house the other night?”
“Yes, but that wasn’t a date… or a fake date. Whatever this is.”
“It’snota date. Just two friends having dinner. Nothing more.”
No expectations. No pressure.
The muscles in my shoulders relaxed a little more. “Alright. Friends having dinner.”
“Are you ready?”
“Yes.” I finished off the rest of the water and handed it to her. “Thank you.”
Vivian wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, and I followed her down the stairs. Max was already waiting by the car door and opened it. She slipped inside, and Max gave me a grin to show that he more than approved. I subtly shook my head and mouthed the words “just a friend.” He winked in response.
Max got into the driver’s seat. “Where to, Mr. Cooper?”
“North End.”
I didn’t need to explain. Max knew my routine, although I usually did it alone. Once in a while, my best buddy, Brock, would come for a visit, but I didn’t see him often enough. With my work schedule, I hadn’t made many friends here in Boston. If I wasn’t out with a client, most of my dinners were eaten alone. I suppose it would’ve been different if I grew up in the area, but most of my friends and family lived in Vermont and weren’t the city type.
“How is your project coming along?” I asked.
“Great, actually.” She breathed a sigh of relief. “We found the perfect candidate.”
“May I ask what the project is?”
She explained her makeover project and the backstory on the two people she was featuring.
“That’s quite romantic for someone who doesn’t believe in love,” I said.
“Isabella told you that?”
“Yes, and a bit about your theory.”
“You don’t believe it either?”
“I have my own theory on love.”
She turned to me, her beautiful brown eyes wide and curious. “What is your theory?”
I hesitated, unsure about opening myself up to her. “Pass.”
Vivian nodded and didn’t press further.
“So, what are your plans in Paris?” I asked, trying to cut through the awkward silence.
“I have a job secured out there. It’s only an assistant position, but my goal is to eventually become a head stylist.”
“What made you choose Paris over New York, London, or Milan?”
A soft laugh escaped her lips. “Casablanca.”
Her answer warmed me.
