PART 4: An Invitation Wrapped in Ice
PART 4: An Invitation Wrapped in Ice
Bold invitations disrupt our carefully built walls.
“You heard me,” Adrian continued, a faint hint of amusement coloring his deep voice. “It has come to my attention that working parents in my firm are severely under-caffeinated and over-stressed. As senior creative director, your wellness directly impacts brand output.”
“Mr. Kane, are you seriously calling me on a Friday afternoon to discuss corporate wellness strategies involving ice cream?” I asked, my disbelief warring with an unexpected spike of adrenaline.
“I am calling to invite you and Mia to dinner,” Adrian said, his tone shifting instantly from teasing to absolute, unyielding certainty. “There is an Italian bistro three blocks from your apartment building. They make a passable carbonara, and they have a courtyard where children aren't forced to whisper.”
I stared blankly at a display of Italian olive oil.
“Dinner? With us?”
“Unless you have other executive commitments this evening?”
“I—no, I mean, we were just going to make boxed macaroni at home, but—Mr. Kane, this is highly unorthodox. What will people say if they see you dining with your subordinate and her six-year-old child?”
“Let them talk,” Adrian said flatly. “It will give the marketing department something interesting to gossip about for once.”
Before I could formulate a coherent excuse about needing to wash my hair, sort laundry, or run away to live in the woods, Mia leaned over the side of the shopping cart and shouted loudly into the phone speaker:
“Tell him yes, Mommy! He has cool buttons!”
There was a brief pause on the line.
Then Adrian laughed again—that same deep, unguarded sound that had echoed down the executive hallway hours earlier.
“There you have it, Elena,” Adrian murmured. “The board has spoken. Seven o'clock at Trattoria Rossi. Don't be late.”
The line clicked dead.
I stood in the middle of aisle four, holding a bunch of bananas in one hand and a ringing phone in the other, feeling like a character who had accidentally stepped onto the wrong movie set.
Mia beamed up at me with absolute triumph.
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“See? I told you he’d be a good daddy.”
“Mia, we are going home to change,” I groaned, pressing my palm against my forehead. “And you are going to explain to me how you managed to recruit a billionaire before dinner time.”
