palates.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
Candlelight glinted along the rim of Cal’s glass as it clinked against hers, and was reflected as glowing pinpoints in his silvery eyes.
Brenna glanced away. Not a date. Though she was starting to wish it was. At this point, she was getting used to the idea Cal was no longer a client, so long as they never had another professional massage session. Easily managed, since he’d be going back to DC after his trial ended—a thought that was far more disappointing than it ought to have been.
Masking her emotions, she plucked a piece of still-warm bread out of the basket. “You should try the focaccia. They bake it here.”
“Okay.” He selected a piece, too. “So, how did a masseuse from California end up in Boston?”
She suppressed a wince. Correcting his terminology might embarrass him, but it was still going to be the easiest part of her answer. “Massage therapist, if you don’t mind.”
He paused, bread halfway to his mouth. “Oh! Sorry about that.”
“No problem.” Now she just had to explain her cross-country relocation without revealing too much. She took a sip of wine to moisten her dry throat.
How much of the story should she divulge? Gregory had moved back to Boston after graduation to work in his family’s real estate management business, and he’d asked her to come with him. They’d lived in one of his family’s apartments—a gorgeous brownstone they never could have afforded on their own, even with their generous salaries. And then he’d unceremoniously ejected her from his life, because she no longer fit into it.
There was no way in hell she wanted to get too far into that when she and Cal were just starting to get to know each other. So she leaned toward him, as if they were about to share a juicy piece of gossip, and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Well, you see, there was this guy…” She trailed off, not needing to tell him the ending to that familiar story. “But you probably don’t want to hear about that.” She looked up at him earnestly from under her lashes and changed the subject. “Besides, I want to hear more about you, Cal.”
“How about the nutshell version?” he offered.
She nodded, grateful to have dodged that particular conversational bullet.
“I grew up in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Went to Brown undergrad and then straight through to law school at Stanford.”
The perfect moment dangled right there, when she should tell him she’d gone to college at Stanford, too. They could try to figure out whether their time at her alma mater had overlapped, and whether they knew anyone in common.
But then he would ask how a Stanford grad had ended up as a massage therapist instead of working at a high-tech start-up, or as a lawyer or investment banker or some other so-called respectable profession. After Gregory, she just couldn’t bring herself to let an obviously successful guy like Cal judge her that way. And find her lacking.
Besides, it wasn’t like this farce of a date would ever go anywhere.
So, with a pang of guilt for not trusting him, she seized on a different commonality to keep their conversation flowing. “I grew up about forty-five minutes from there, in Santa Cruz. Did you like the Bay Area?”
“I loved it out there. Wish I could have stayed.”
“Why didn’t you?”
He leaned toward her, and she mirrored him, eagerly anticipating his response. Then he said conspiratorially, “Well, you see, there was this girl…”
She laughed, and he joined in. “Okay, I walked into that one,” she said. “And so the girl enticed you out to DC? Or was there a stop somewhere in between?”
“Yeah, DC. I joined Carter, Munroe and Hodges right out of law school. Worked my butt off for the past eight years, but I love it, and it seems to be a good fit for me.”
Their meals came then, and it was all she could do not to voraciously attack her pizza as soon as it was placed in front of her. As usual, she
“I’ll drink to that.”
Candlelight glinted along the rim of Cal’s glass as it clinked against hers, and was reflected as glowing pinpoints in his silvery eyes.
Brenna glanced away. Not a date. Though she was starting to wish it was. At this point, she was getting used to the idea Cal was no longer a client, so long as they never had another professional massage session. Easily managed, since he’d be going back to DC after his trial ended—a thought that was far more disappointing than it ought to have been.
Masking her emotions, she plucked a piece of still-warm bread out of the basket. “You should try the focaccia. They bake it here.”
“Okay.” He selected a piece, too. “So, how did a masseuse from California end up in Boston?”
She suppressed a wince. Correcting his terminology might embarrass him, but it was still going to be the easiest part of her answer. “Massage therapist, if you don’t mind.”
He paused, bread halfway to his mouth. “Oh! Sorry about that.”
“No problem.” Now she just had to explain her cross-country relocation without revealing too much. She took a sip of wine to moisten her dry throat.
How much of the story should she divulge? Gregory had moved back to Boston after graduation to work in his family’s real estate management business, and he’d asked her to come with him. They’d lived in one of his family’s apartments—a gorgeous brownstone they never could have afforded on their own, even with their generous salaries. And then he’d unceremoniously ejected her from his life, because she no longer fit into it.
There was no way in hell she wanted to get too far into that when she and Cal were just starting to get to know each other. So she leaned toward him, as if they were about to share a juicy piece of gossip, and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Well, you see, there was this guy…” She trailed off, not needing to tell him the ending to that familiar story. “But you probably don’t want to hear about that.” She looked up at him earnestly from under her lashes and changed the subject. “Besides, I want to hear more about you, Cal.”
“How about the nutshell version?” he offered.
She nodded, grateful to have dodged that particular conversational bullet.
“I grew up in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Went to Brown undergrad and then straight through to law school at Stanford.”
The perfect moment dangled right there, when she should tell him she’d gone to college at Stanford, too. They could try to figure out whether their time at her alma mater had overlapped, and whether they knew anyone in common.
But then he would ask how a Stanford grad had ended up as a massage therapist instead of working at a high-tech start-up, or as a lawyer or investment banker or some other so-called respectable profession. After Gregory, she just couldn’t bring herself to let an obviously successful guy like Cal judge her that way. And find her lacking.
Besides, it wasn’t like this farce of a date would ever go anywhere.
So, with a pang of guilt for not trusting him, she seized on a different commonality to keep their conversation flowing. “I grew up about forty-five minutes from there, in Santa Cruz. Did you like the Bay Area?”
“I loved it out there. Wish I could have stayed.”
“Why didn’t you?”
He leaned toward her, and she mirrored him, eagerly anticipating his response. Then he said conspiratorially, “Well, you see, there was this girl…”
She laughed, and he joined in. “Okay, I walked into that one,” she said. “And so the girl enticed you out to DC? Or was there a stop somewhere in between?”
“Yeah, DC. I joined Carter, Munroe and Hodges right out of law school. Worked my butt off for the past eight years, but I love it, and it seems to be a good fit for me.”
Their meals came then, and it was all she could do not to voraciously attack her pizza as soon as it was placed in front of her. As usual, she
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