Chapter 83
Edward POV
I glanced at my watch for the third time in twenty minutes, then returned my attention to the quarterly reports on my tablet. Catherine Morgan was now considerably late for our lunch meeting. I had deliberately chosen a corner table with a clear view of both the entrance and the rain-streaked windows, giving me privacy while I made productive use of this unexpected solitude.
The hostess had already approached twice to ask if I wanted to order, her sympathy barely concealing her curiosity about being stood up.
The email notification from Hong Kong could wait. I closed it without reading and instead pulled up the proposal for the Meridian Technologies acquisition. At least one thing in my day would be productive.
My mind drifted to Anna. Was she still asleep when I left this morning, her hair spread across my pillow? The memory of her body curled against mine last night, her breathing eventually syncing with mine, sent an unexpected warmth through my chest. The vulnerability in that moment had been more intimate than any physical encounter we'd shared. I'd never expected to find such comfort in simply holding someone—especially someone who had once been nothing more than a convenient solution to my inheritance problem.
The soft clearing of a throat pulled me back to reality. The hostess approached with Catherine in tow, and I rose from my seat, buttoning my jacket with practiced ease. Catherine Morgan was the epitome of old money elegance—caramel hair styled in soft waves, a cream silk blouse tucked into a navy pencil skirt, pearl earrings that probably belonged to her grandmother. Her smile was practiced perfection as she extended her hand.
"Edward, I'm terribly sorry to keep you waiting," she said, her voice carrying that distinctive finishing school cadence that marked her as Manhattan aristocracy. "Traffic on Park Avenue was atrocious."
I took her hand briefly, noting the perfectly manicured nails and the subtle scent of Chanel No. 5. "Catherine. No problem at all. I had some work to catch up on."
As she settled across from me, the waiter materialized silently to pull out her chair. The restaurant hummed with the quiet conversation of New York's elite, the clink of fine china and crystal creating a soothing white noise of privilege. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I could see raindrops beginning to streak the glass, turning the city beyond into an impressionist painting.
"I must say, I was surprised to receive your invitation," Catherine said, interrupting my thoughts. "Though your mother did mention you might call."
Of course she did. My mother's matchmaking efforts had become increasingly transparent since Margaret's health scare. The symphony tickets she'd pressed into my hand yesterday now made perfect sense. Sometimes I wondered if my mother's calendar consisted solely of potential daughter-in-law interviews.
"My mother is..." I paused, searching for a diplomatic phrase, "invested in my social calendar."
Catherine laughed softly, a sound honed by years of social training, like everything else about her. "Mothers usually are. Mine practically engineered our introduction at your grandmother's birthday gala."
I raised an eyebrow. "Did she?"
"Oh yes. She and your grandmother have been plotting since we were in prep school," Catherine said, unfolding her napkin with perfect form and placing it precisely on her lap. "Though we never crossed paths at social events until recently."
The waiter arrived with water and took our orders. Catherine selected the seafood tasting menu without glancing at the options—another sign of someone who frequented establishments where menus were suggestions rather than requirements. I opted for the steak, rare.
"How is your acquisition of Meridian Technologies progressing?" she asked after the waiter departed. "I heard there were regulatory hurdles."
I studied her with newfound interest. Most women my mother introduced discussed charity galas or summer plans in the Hamptons. Market analysis was refreshing, if unexpected.
"The antitrust concerns were overblown. We're finalizing terms this week," I replied, genuinely impressed by her knowledge. "You follow the tech sector?"
"I have diverse investments," she replied with a modest shrug that didn't quite mask her confidence. "And my father sits on three tech boards. Dinner conversation at the Morgan household tends toward market analysis rather than social gossip."
For the next forty minutes, our conversation flowed through business, politics, and the recent changes in the Fed's monetary policy. Catherine was undeniably intelligent, with sharp insights and a quick wit that made for engaging company. In another life—one where Anna didn't exist—Catherine Morgan might have been exactly what I needed.
I found myself comparing them despite my efforts not to. Where Catherine was polished, Anna was authentic. Catherine's laughter was measured; Anna's was unrestrained when it came. Catherine knew exactly what fork to use for each course; Anna sometimes used the wrong one but didn't care. Catherine belonged in this world of calculated social interactions; Anna disrupted it with her honesty.
As dessert was served—a delicate chocolate soufflé that Catherine barely touched—I reached into my jacket pocket and withdrew the symphony tickets my mother had given me.
"The New York Philharmonic is performing Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No. 2 next Friday," I said, sliding the tickets toward her. "My mother mentioned you're fond of classical music. Perhaps you might enjoy these."
Her perfectly shaped eyebrows lifted slightly—the only indication of surprise she allowed herself. She studied the tickets for a moment before meeting my gaze again.
"That's very thoughtful, Edward," she said, her tone carefully calibrated between appreciation and disappointment. "Though I had hoped you might accompany me."
The invitation hung in the air, perfectly timed and executed. Not too eager, not too casual. I studied her expression—confident but not presumptuous. She expected acceptance but was prepared for rejection. This was what made Catherine the perfect society match: she understood the game and played it flawlessly.
"I appreciate the interest," I began, maintaining eye contact, "but my schedule is particularly demanding next week." And the week after that, and the one after that—as long as Anna remained in my life.
If she was disappointed, she concealed it masterfully. "Perhaps another time, then. I'll see if my cousin would like to join me instead."
"Perhaps," I echoed, knowing there wouldn't be another time. Catherine deserved someone whose attention wasn't perpetually divided, someone who wasn't constantly thinking about a stubbornly independent artist with a talent for getting under his skin.
As we parted outside the restaurant, Catherine offered her cheek for a polite kiss. "This was lovely, Edward. Don't be a stranger." Rain misted around us, catching in her perfectly styled hair without seeming to affect it.
"It was," I agreed, stepping back. "Take care, Catherine."
Jenkins opened the car door, and I slid into the back seat, already reaching for my phone to check if Anna had called. Nothing. The persistent tightness in my chest whenever she was out of contact was becoming problematic. It wasn't concern—at least, not entirely. It was something more possessive, more primal. The thought of her moving through the world without me, encountering people who didn't know she was mine... it created a discomfort I wasn't accustomed to feeling.
"Back to Bellevue Heights," I instructed him, leaning back against the leather seat.
I had hours before Anna would return from her gallery visit. Hours to contemplate why declining Catherine's perfectly reasonable invitation had been so effortless, when saying no to anything Anna-related seemed increasingly impossible.