Mary kept working.
I kept staring.
When Mary finished her measurements, she stepped back. “With these arms and that chest, this suit will look amazing on you. And the color of this fabric.” She grabbed my sleeve. “It suits you perfectly.”
It was charcoal gray—my favorite color.
The personal shopper never asked what I liked—so Cleo must have informed her.
Mary looked at me, as if she expected a reaction to her compliment.
I was quiet.
Cleo stood up. “Deacon, you can change out of that now.” She interceded before the silence continued too long. “Mary, I’ll have this dropped off for you with the other items I have.”
“Alright. Goodbye, Mr. Hamilton.”
She headed to the door.
I turned around and headed into my bedroom to change. Once I was back in my sweatpants and shirt, I returned, holding the suit in a pile in my arms.
Cleo had a hanger ready, and she hung up the pieces of the suit. “I’ll have it dry-cleaned and pressed as well. You’ll look like a million bucks. Or, in your case, a billion.”
My hands rested in my pockets, my fingertips touching the phone she’d replaced for me.
She finished hanging up the clothes, not expecting a reaction like everyone else did. “Have you written your speech?”
I was surprised she knew I had to make one. “Yes.”
“Can I hear it?”
“Why?”
She held the hanger to her side, so she wouldn’t touch the delicate fabric. “I have a feeling it could use some improvements.”
I never said much when I got an award. Just a quick thank you and I stepped offstage. I’d never been a long-winded person, especially when the spotlight was on me. But if I gave a presentation about my research, I couldn’t shut up.
“Can I come back in a few hours so we can work on it?”
I didn’t have plans.
“I can bring you dinner, if you want a night off from cooking. One of my chefs is dropping off salmon to another client, and it’s amazing. I can ask him to make a serving for you as well.”
When I lived in California, Jeremiah followed orders and retrieved whatever I asked for, but Cleo was more proactive, catering to her clients as if I was staying at a hotel instead of my own home. “Yes.”
“Alright. I’ll see you soon.” She was professional, like our conversation last night never happened.
I watched her shut the door behind herself before I headed back to the dining table.
She came back hours later, holding a container of food along with her notebook. She walked into my kitchen, plated it for me, and then placed it in front of me at the dining table.
I stared at her blankly then looked at the food. Tender salmon, fresh broccoli, and rice pilaf. It was what I usually made for dinner.
She took the seat beside me and got her notebook ready. “Can I read your speech off your computer?”
I didn’t let anyone look at my computer because I had important research and classified information on the device. I used to lock it with code, but since I was on it all the time, that became a hindrance. But after the way Cleo saw my porn and exited out of it, it made me reconsider.
I entered the password and closed out of everything except the speech on the Word document.
Without looking at me, she said, “I’m glad you put a passcode on your computer. You should put one on your phone too.”
I turned the laptop toward her.
She grabbed it and pulled it a little closer. “It’s just this paragraph?” she asked, squinting as if the font was too small for her to read.
“Yes.”
Her eyes scanned back and forth, reading the words quickly. “Well…I think we should start over.”
“What’s wrong with my speech?”
“It’s so sterile. A roomful of people are going to listen to you speak. It’ll be in magazines and newspapers. People will record it and put it on YouTube. It needs to be more than a simple thank you.”
“People hate long speeches.”
“Not if they’re good speeches. Give me a second.” She adjusted the laptop and started to type, taking breaks to read what she’d just written because she continued to add more words.
I watched her, unsure what she had to offer. She wasn’t a speech writer. She didn’t know anything about my work.
She propped her chin on her fingers as she looked at the screen, her mind thinking of the next thing to write.
I grabbed my fork and took a bite, surprised by the tenderness of the fish. It was splashed with lemon zest, rosemary, and a hint of sugar. I ate as I stared at her, noticing the way her thick eyelashes shifted and moved when her eyeballs focused on something else. She chewed on the inside of her cheek as she concentrated.
“How about this?” She turned the laptop back to me.
I’d just finished the last bite of my food. I wiped my fingers on the napkin and looked at the screen, seeing that she’d written two full pages of words. I started to read. It was better than what I had, but it also wasn’t me. “It doesn’t sound like something I would say.”