Where Is Your Boy?

Boyd

It’s been a long time since I picked a woman up for a date. Since my last relationship went down in flames, I swore I wouldn’t do this to myself again. Especially not when it’s as complicated as things are with Sophie McNamara. Throw in a narcissist father/boss and professional lives that could intersect or be in direct competition with one another, and you have a recipe for disaster.

Yet, here I am, standing at her door, trying to build up the courage to knock. My knuckles finally cooperate and make contact with her cookie-cutter door that has a small six-panel window across the top. It’s just high enough, I can only see the top of Sophie’s head as she approaches.

She pulls the door open, revealing her simple black turtleneck sweater and fitted black pants that conform to her curves like a lucky second skin. I’ve seen Sophie in several different styles of dress, but this one—knowing she got dressed to go out with me—is my favourite.

“Hi.” A light blush appears on her cheeks that has happened during several of our interactions. The lawyer in me has deemed that her tell.

“Hey.” I lean in to kiss her cheek before thinking through the implications. My lips connect with her flush skin and send a surge of electricity through my veins. A mixture of anticipation and reservation. “Where’s Wilson?” I ask, not wanting to analyze that reaction.

Sophie tucks a strand of straightened hair behind her ear and touches her cheek where my lips just did. “I took him over to Celeste’s a while ago. She insisted.” She tugs the door open a little wider. “Come inside for a minute.”

I respond like an obedient dog, not questioning her command. “Wow. Uh… nice place.” I scan the room and take in the light pink velvet sofa, gold and glass shelf with matching decor, abstract art on the wall opposite the one large window, and more elaborate throw pillows than I can count at first glance.

She’s digging through her foyer closet, pushing an irrational number of jackets to the side before settling on a long wool grey coat that ties at the waist. “Don’t judge me. I spent my life in the shadow of my twin brother, watching my mother capitulate to every one of my father’s demands, and spend my work days being treated as inferior. So here, I wanted it to be the one place it’s okay to embrace being female.”

Her response makes me a combination of sad and angry. I’m the big brother in my family, but still have spent plenty of time feeling inferior to my academic superstar brother. At least I’ve had the opportunity to outgrow that and find my own path. For Sophie, it seems to get worse as the years go by.

She pulls her coat tight, enhancing her hour-glass shape. There is nothing inferior about this woman.

“Anyone who makes you feel that way is intimidated by everything you offer, Sophie. No one who is secure in what they bring to the table wastes time belittling anyone.” A strong urge to wrap my arms around her nearly wins out over rational thought. I have a deep desire to absorb every feminine part of her. How she smells. The suppleness of her skin. How her curves feel against me.

But the look she’s giving me in return is one of appreciation and respect—mutual respect—and I won’t discount that by making her feel like an object here to satisfy my impulses.

“Ready?”

She looks down at her sock-clad feet and turns back to her closet. “Almost.” With an elegant confidence, she slips on a tall black leather boot with a small heel. The way she trails the zipper up on the inside of her calf makes me wish I was the intricate plastic pieces, allowing her to pull me together. “Ready.”

“You look beautiful.” I run my hand through my roguish hair, stopping myself short of what I want to say. It’s hardly Shakespearean to tell her Oh, that I were a zipper upon your calf, so I may touch your calf. That’s a solid way to start this date off on a weird note. Instead, I ask, “Where are you taking me?”

Since Sophie was the one who asked me out, she insisted on planning everything. One thing I know from our time together is that traditional gender roles hold little appeal to her, so it was an easy concession to make.

“You’ll probably think it’s lame, but I’ve been wanting to go to Casa Mesa since we moved to the city, and I haven’t had the chance. I figured it was a smart choice because it’s heated.”

“Would you believe I’ve lived in the city my entire life and I’ve never been?”

Sophie’s eyes light up, and a soft smile brightens her face. “Perfect.” She saunters out the door with me trailing close behind, only stopping to lock her door, then she leads me to her SUV. Not only has she planned the evening, but she’s driving.

The trip takes less than fifteen minutes from Sophie’s condo to the parking area at the elaborate estate. Our conversation is free-flowing and easy as we walk to the entry gates, where Sophie flashes her phone to show pre-paid tickets for a tour of the castle in the city.

The grounds are immaculate, even well into the fall when things are typically dormant and dull. The gardens are well kept and neatly trimmed back for the impending winter. The exterior of the main house is ornate and gothic, like a genuine castle.

“Wow.” Sophie marvels at the immensity of the ninety-room home that has stood since the early twentieth century.

We take a guided tour, during which we learn about the history of Sir Henry Fernsby, along with his financial rise and fall. The estate itself is fascinating, with a room for every occasion, secret tunnels, and features that were cutting-edge technology at the time it was built. I enjoy watching Sophie appreciate each curved detail carved into furniture and comment on how ostentatious some things are. Our guide, Rick, ties up the tour by directing us to the restaurants and gift shop.

“Hardly seems fair, does it?” Sophie chimes as we browse the souvenirs on offer.

“What’s that?”

“This Henry left school at seventeen to work for his father and, by twenty-two, he was made partner. I know it was a different time, but I’ve worked my butt off, gotten my degree, learned the ropes of the business, never stopped working, and I barely get acknowledged.”

We spent the entire evening talking without ever having a lull in our conversation, and work hasn’t come up since she mentioned her choice of house decor. I wish it had stayed that way. If I’m being honest, any mention of McNamara Enterprises or its current CEO turns my mood sour.

Before our face-to-face interaction, I admired him to an extent. From a business perspective, he has done well for himself. I’m just not the type of person to idolize someone because of their profit margins—especially not when they treat their own child so poorly. He won’t be getting a souvenir.

Sophie picks up a single printed photo of the estate, and I grab a onesie for Grace that says “Queen of the castle”.

“Ready for dinner? I made reservations at Don Giovanni.”

I glance across the great hall at the Italian restaurant that now occupies what was once a ballroom. There is probably an extensive history of “important” people enjoying a meal within those walls. I’ve never been a fan of high-end dining, but this is Sophie’s night to plan, so I go along with it.

The hostess directs us to our seats at a secluded table near a stone-faced fireplace. As far as ambiance goes, this place has it in spades. But I sit down at the table, open the menu, and struggle to read the contents. I settle on a rib-eye because it’s recognizable and I can pronounce it without making a fool of myself.

“I don’t even know what half of this stuff is. What is bagna cauda?” Sophie groans as she closes her menu in front of her.

Her exasperation makes me a little relieved that she isn’t the type to frequent elaborate Italian restaurants and is as uncomfortable as I am. That relief disappears as soon as she continues speaking.

“I should have made reservations at a French restaurant. At least I can read the menu.”

On one hand, I’m impressed she can read French because I gave it up the minute it was no longer mandatory in school. On the other hand, I keep getting glimpses of the woman my first impression told me she was—the one I want to stay away from—and that floods me with disappointment.

For the rest of dinner, we eat in relative silence. Sophie attempts to direct conversation, but I’m lost in my thoughts. Trying to reconcile the Sophie who buys her dog a designer collar and drives a seventy thousand dollar SUV with the woman I’ve been slowly getting to know. The one who lied to brush me off and the one who asked me out. Which one is the genuine Sophie?

When our server comes to clear our plates and asks about dessert, Sophie blurts “no” with a level of enthusiasm that tells me she’s eager to get this night over with. The young woman returns with our cheque, which Sophie insists on paying. I was fine with her planning our evening, but she already paid for tickets to get into Casa Mesa. Conceding to her demands in this case is tough to swallow. She picks up the near $300 tab without batting an eye. Another hint that she’s used to this level of extravagance.

We walk outside without another word and head toward Sophie’s car. She asks if I want a ride home, but as much as I’m trying to accommodate her hatred of traditional gender roles, that feels a bit demoralizing. Not to mention, my mother is basically a secret agent and she’ll notice a woman dropping me off from two doors down. I’m not prepared for those questions.

“It’s fine. It’s in the opposite direction. I can just catch a ride-share from your place.”

She stutters before finding her voice again. “Oh, you don’t have to come all the way back to my place, then. You can just order a car from here. Save a few bucks.”

The twelve or so dollars I’ll save isn’t enough motivation to abandon making sure she gets home safely. My father ingrained some things in me as a child about what it means to be a gentleman. Ensuring a lady arrives home safely is one of those things. Before I can express my determination to do so, Sophie pulls her key from her small purse, assures me she had a nice time, and starts speed walking down the path to the parking lot.

“Sophie, wait.” I jog a few steps to draw even with her. “At least let me walk you to your car.”

She nods, and a second later, we stroll along the empty walkway to the well-lit parking area, stopping beside her rear bumper.

“Thank you for tonight. It was… extravagant.” I bite the inside of my cheek to resist grimacing at my summary of the evening. As awkward as this moment is, there is an intense tension between us that’s begging to be cut by a kiss.

Sophie licks her lips and tilts her head back. Her body inches closer to mine, but at the same time, her eyes portray the same degree of confusion I’m feeling. I want nothing more than to end this night on a good note, but figuring out where we stand is a lot like trying to predict which way a jury is going to swing.

“Good night, Boyd.” She blinks her usual confident mask back on and takes one step back.

“Good night, Sophie.”

And with that, she’s ducking into her car and driving off into the night.