I open my own box from Porters, it is nearly identical to Alexa’s except my vegetable is asparagus wrapped in prosciutto. She had not closed the door before I put in the order at Porters. Victoria had emailed me today telling me she didn’t want Tesoros, she wanted Porters like she had with Alexa and another serving of their excellent soufflé. With the email still in my mind, I hadn’t thought twice.

I have been to Porters often enough they were quick to please and did not even pause to check if they could deliver to me. When I asked them if they knew Alexa Clark’s usual order there was only a brief consultation before confirming they did. Before I think, my hand shoots out, I hit the intercom. “Bring your food in here.”

Fuck, what did I just do? “Okay.” After her fiery response in my office, not thirty minutes before coupled with the obnoxious way she answered her phone only minutes ago the word sounds small and full of hesitation.

When she enters, she is halting as if she expects me to bark at her at any moment. I motion to the chair across from my desk. Lifting the glass I poured for myself before security sent up the delivery man, I ask. “Drink? Mine is scotch. I have vodka for Dmitri and gin and sherry that has not been touched in years.”

Her eyebrows go up. “I’d love scotch, please. Thank you.”

As I pour, her eyes dart around. “I drink mine neat.”

“I’d like a cube or two of ice, but my water is still cold.” She holds up a water bottle. “Just a splash.”

Setting her glass down I observe the careful addition of the water then a practiced twist of her wrist to combine the scotch and water. Her first sip is a careful one. She holds the liquor in her mouth for a moment before letting it slide down. “Macallan 21-year-old, thank you for sharing. This is delicious and perfect with steak.” She laughs at my surprise. “My dad got me into scotch, Macallan was his favorite.

“I managed to get him a bottle of 21-year-old the year before he died. He said it was the best way to go.” Her blue eyes cloud as she forces a smile. “I can only afford the 12-year-old which I drink very rarely. An excellent steak cooked perfectly and the best scotch. Is this my last supper?”

She says it teasingly; her courage astounds me. I smile against my will. “We shall see what you do or do not find. I read your first book. I liked it. Where did it come from? What made you write it?”

Shrugging, she keeps her eyes down, cutting into her steak. A small happy sigh escapes between her soft lips. “I don’t know. It was one of those kind of weird, just came to me things when I was in Florence.”