Chapter 12: Suite on the Boss: Chapter 11

That Saturday, Isaac stops outside my building to pick me up for the drive to the Hamptons. It’s not a town car this time. It’s a large SUV, and he’s in the driver seat.

I get in and tuck my summer dress around my knees. “Hi.”

“Hello,” he says. “You look lovely.”

I smile. It’s likely ingrained in him, this. The manners that lead a man to opening doors and complimenting dates. “Thank you,” I say, enjoying it regardless. “So do you.”

He chuckles and turns the wheel, taking us back into the traffic. “Well, thank you.”

I mean it, too. The beige suit is a sharp contrast against the darkness of his hair. And he’s newly shaven, the cut of his jaw sharp in profile.

Isaac drives smoothly. Skilled and silent, he’s the same behind the wheel as he is away from it. I look at him from the corner of my eye.

He notices. “You’re thinking about something.”

I stretch out my legs. The car has ample legroom. “Doesn’t everyone, all the time?”

“No,” he says. “They don’t. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“About you, actually, and the Winter Hotel.”

“Ah, yes. Famously one and the same,” he says so dryly that I know there’s a hint of truth in the joke. For all intents and purposes, he is the hotel.

“Almost,” I say. “Except one stands just a bit taller than the other.”

“Well, one of them is also a bit more open to strangers spending the night than the other.”

“Just a bit?” I say, my smile widening. “Good thing only one accepts payment, too.”

He gives a surprised laugh. “That’s one thing I’ve yet to do.”

“Good thing, that.”

He taps his fingers along the leathered wheel. “Now, what were you really thinking about?”

“The dichotomy between traditional and modern,” I say, “and where you and your company land on that scale.”

“Are you turning this drive into a business meeting?”

“I’ve never been able to resist multitasking.”

“I’m impressed by your work ethic, Bishop.”

“Are you?” I ask. “I’d have thought you expected it from the people you work with.”

He’s quiet for a beat. “I do. But not everyone lives up to it.”

“Not everyone can.”

“No,” he says. Then, he clears his throat like he hears how unyielding that sounds. “So, traditional versus modern?”

“Yes.”

“You’re too smart not to know the answer to that. We’re a traditional hotel chain,” he says. “Why don’t you ask me what you really want to know?”

A thrill runs down my spine at his words. “All right. What makes you think a traditional look for your budget hotel chain would make it unique? Stand out? Impress?”

He runs a hand along his jaw. “Well, now I know where you stand on the matter.”

“You do. But I’m not asking to start an argument here. I genuinely want to know why you and your team see that as the best option.”

“Tradition conveys strength,” he says. “And it would tie in beautifully with the rest of the Winter brand.”

“Mm-hmm.” I bite my lip, fighting the urge to argue. It’s not time yet, not until the pitch.

“You don’t agree,” he says.

“I think those are key aspects of the Winter brand,” I say. “But I don’t think those are the only ones, or maybe even the most important ones.”

“Interesting.” He taps his fingers against the wheel again and looks over at me. The landscape behind him has changed, Manhattan receding in the distance. We’re leaving one jungle for another entirely.

“I want to do a good job on this pitch,” I say. “But I also want to deliver what you’ve asked for.”

“You think they’re mutually exclusive?”

“I think they’re at odds, yes,” I say carefully. “But you can trust us to deliver on your vision. I promise there will be a traditional option at the pitch.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.”

“Now you’re just being polite.”

He shakes his head. “That’s not what I sound like when I’m polite.”

The words sink into my mind and I turn them over, examine them. There’s truth there.

And a compliment.

I look out the window and take in the greenery passing by. We don’t speak again until I start to recognize the familiar landscape of Long Island. It’s a place I’ve been to before with Percy, many times, driving up on the weekends to his parents’ house. The trip is long but comfortable.

It’s funny how the people in the city and the Hamptons just switch places. The same people, different locations. It’s insular and familiar, a social circle so small, it’s almost incestuous.

“We’re not stopping?” I ask. We’re halfway through Southampton, and Isaac shows no sign of slowing down.

He shakes his head. “The party’s in Montauk.”

“Oh, that’s a lovely place.”

“Been before?”

“Yes, we’d go up sometimes from the house in Southampton.” There’s no need to explain who the we is. “But that was a few summers ago. Montauk’s nice. Less crowded.”

Isaac nods. “That’s why we like it. It’s the furthest from the city.”

“You have a family house there?”

“Yes. My parents do, and my brother bought a place for him and his wife a few years ago, too.” There’s a brief pause, and then something tightens in his voice. “They’re considering moving here permanently one day.”

“Wow. Are they tired of the city?”

“In a way,” he says. “They’re hosting the party we’re heading to.”

“Your brother and your sister-in-law are?”

“Yes.”

I blink at him. “Wow. Didn’t think to mention that?”

“I am now,” he says and looks over at me with a smile.

“It isn’t distant relatives today, then,” I say. My stomach does a little flip. We’ll really be playing a couple.

“No, but they’ll be pretty busy with the guests. Don’t worry, Bishop. This isn’t a meet-the-parents kind of thing.”

“But they’ll be there,” I say. “Right? Your parents will be there?”

“Yes.”

I lean back in my seat. “Oh.”

“Too much?”

“No, I can do it.” I think of my former parents-in-law and of judgmental looks and tests phrased as get-to-know-you questions. “What have you told them about me?”

“Nothing,” he says. “We can use the tennis-meet story, if they ask. I don’t think they will.” He looks over at me, and there are frown lines between his dark eyebrows. “Don’t worry, Sophia. I’d never bring you into a situation where I thought you’d be uncomfortable.”

Somehow, I believe that. “Thank you.”

“I should probably tell you what the event is, too.”

“I’d appreciate that,” I say and aim for a teasing note in my voice. “If you’re bringing me to an impromptu wedding, I’ll be very upset.”

“No one’s getting married that I know of.”

“No ritual sacrifice? I left my goat at home.”

“Not that, either.” His voice is smooth, but there’s a tension about him that wasn’t there a few minutes ago. “It’s a summer party for a charity.”

“Another benefit?”

“Of a kind,” he says. “There’s a door fee, and every penny will go to a foundation for the blind and vision-impaired.”

“That’s beautiful,” I say.

“I’ll cover our door fees,” he says.

“I’d be happy to—”

“I invited you. Besides, it’s already been paid.” He takes a breath. “My younger brother is losing his eyesight.”

“Oh my God, Isaac. I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah. It’s… yeah. It is what it is.”

“I didn’t know that,” I say.

He shakes his head. “It’s not something he discusses with people outside of the family.”

“I see.”

“Not that it’s a secret, exactly, but…”

“I understand,” I say, because I do. “It’s not something I’ll talk about.”

“Thanks.”

“Your brother doesn’t usually go to events, right? Like the benefit, or any of the country clubs?”

Isaac chuckles. “Hell no. He stopped going to them at the same time we both grew out of the open bar fascination.”

“So, no Winter wingman for you?”

“No, he chose his own path… And now he’s doing it again.”

There’s more here than he’s saying. More pain, perhaps, or struggles than he’s willing to share. I try to imagine losing my eyesight—losing the sense I use every moment of every day—and feel a shudder of fear.

“Is there nothing to be done?”

“No,” Isaac says. His voice is tight. “Mitigation, adaptation, research, yes. There might be exercises to delay the degeneration. He could live for thirty years without losing it entirely, and from what I’ve understood, it’s rare that you lose all light perception.”

Anthony Winter, I think. That’s his name. Married to Summer Davis, father to a new baby boy. They must have kept this under wraps for it to have been left out of my briefing on the Winter family.

“Anyway,” Isaac says, “we don’t have to stay long.”

“I’m happy to stay for as long as you want.” The words come out with more force than I’d anticipated. His brother’s losing his eyesight and raising money for charity. “I’ll stay way past midnight if you’d like, and I promise I’ll act like the perfect date. Won’t be able to take my eyes off you.”

Isaac glances my way. “Thank you,” he says, and there’s warmth in his voice.

We reach the small town of Montauk. He drives the car down Main Street and then turns onto an adjoining road, heading toward the ocean. The street is lined with cars. One after the other, all parked along the street.

“It’s already started?” I ask.

“It’s a day party. My brother made it very clear to his wife that everyone had to be out by nine p.m.”

I laugh. “He’s not fond of parties?”

“That’s an understatement.”

We drive past the cars and turn onto the property. Two cars are parked side by side on the driveway, and beside them is space for one more. They’d kept a family spot open for Isaac.

The house is gorgeous. White and huge, blending into the surroundings seamlessly in a way that’s so common with the rich. Giant hydrangeas erupt from white pots on either side of the porch steps.

From the back comes the sound of a live band.

Isaac gestures to a path between the house and the garage. He looks right at home, tall and well-dressed, standing on a stone path half-overgrown with well-cut grass. “Ready?”

“Yes,” I say. “Your family must be really intense about your dating habits for you to want them to meet me.”

“You have no idea,” he mutters. “My sister-in-law co-owns an elite dating service.”

“Wow. Really?”

“Really,” he says.

“And you’ve never been the least bit curious to try it?” I ask.

He raises an eyebrow. “Would you be?”

I shake my head. “Gosh, that sounds like the complete opposite of what I’d want.”

“Right. You’re done with men like Percy Browne, right?”

“Yes,” I say and chuckle. “My sister is actually trying to set me up with my old high school boyfriend back in Marhill.”

“Is she?” He pauses just before the gate. Behind it, I can hear the sound of laughter and conversation. “And are you interested in your high school ex?”

“God, no. Robbie is a great guy, and he was exactly what I needed at seventeen. But we live completely different lives. No, I think I need someone in between.”

“In between?” Isaac asks. “Not a client of an elite dating service, and not your hometown sweetheart?”

“Exactly,” I say, smiling up at him. “Like a nice, respectable math teacher who lives in Brooklyn.”

Isaac chuckles. “A math teacher. And are you especially interested in math?”

“Not particularly,” I say. “But people like to say that opposites attract.”

“Yes,” he says. “They do say that, don’t they?”

We look at each for a long beat, standing there, hidden behind the white picket gate. The late August air is warm, and yet, I feel goose bumps rise on the back of my neck.

Isaac reaches for the door handle. “Well,” he murmurs. “I think we’re doing pretty well despite it.”

Right. Because we’re not opposites. Not at all.

I’m starting to think we’re exactly alike.