Elizabeth nods, a small, satisfied smile forming on her face. “That’s a good idea. And I will speak to Ceinlys first. She’s always been a huge supporter of the foundation. Any other suggestions or thoughts?”
There are a few other ideas, but it’s clear that the Pryce grove is the best. After a little more discussion, Elizabeth calls an end to the meeting.
“Thank you for coming, everyone,” she says before heading out. She’s already reaching for her phone, probably to call this Ceinlys person. She doesn’t believe in putting things off.
We all follow her out, me walking next to Tolyan. “In case you don’t know,” he says, “the foundation is the Pryce family’s pet project. Elizabeth’s in charge, but that can change anytime, although it’s unlikely. Nobody squeezes charity money out of the rich like she does.”
I have to agree. The woman looks like an angel and speaks like one, too. She has an uncanny talent for making you feel important and needed, which in turn stirs you to help her in any way you can.
Tolyan continues, “Salazar is the head of the family. Ceinlys is his ex-wife.”
“He listens to his ex-wife?”
“Yes. They’ve reconciled, although she declined to marry him a second time.”
“How come?”
“She hasn’t had the best time being a Pryce. Not every woman enjoys being a member of a family, even if it’s one as wealthy as the Pryces. Salazar’s touchy about his past as a womanizer, so it’s best to avoid reminding him of it. Obviously it’s the same for Ceinlys. Upsetting them wouldn’t end well.”
“Got it.” Don’t talk about women or sex or divorce in front of the family whose name the foundation bears.
“Good.” He stops in front of my desk. “Want to head out early?”
I check the time. It’s not quite quarter till five. But nobody at the foundation cares when you leave on Friday as long as you wait until after four.
“Sure,” I say. “I’m barely awake as it is.”
“I’m surprised your voice is working,” he says, his eyes flashing with a wicked gleam.
I look around furtively. “Will you shush?”
“Everyone knows we live together.”
“So?”
“When healthy adults live together, they tend to do other things too. Like sex.”
“Yeah, but they don’t talk about it at work. We’re supposed to be professional, remember?”
“Yes. That’s why we’re discussing the matter professionally.”
I shake my head, but a smile breaks through. Tolyan can be surprisingly shameless about some things. It’s even more comical because he can look heart-attack serious when he speaks about sex.
“Oh, shut up. Get your things and let’s go.” But I’m half laughing as I say it.
On the way home, we stop by a Mexican restaurant and have tacos. The dinner’s delicious, and the salsa they serve is positively addictive. I don’t talk much, mainly because my head’s getting foggier now that I don’t have to be mentally alert anymore, and the day is finally catching up to me. Not only that, feeling safe with Tolyan has dampened the constant surge of adrenaline. I didn’t realize until recently how much stress it put on me mentally and emotionally.
The meal goes well, except for the small incident where the waitress trips on something and spills salsa and queso con carne on Tolyan’s shirt and pants.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” she says.
“It’s fine,” he says coldly. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
The manager comes out and apologizes. He comps our dinner and offers a free dessert, which we turn down. I’m stuffed already, and Tolyan probably just wants to go home and get out of the stained clothes.
We drive home, Tolyan smelling like a Mexican festival in the close confines of the car. The second we walk into the penthouse, he dumps his dress jacket over the back of a dining chair