Urban God of Rebate: Infinite Returns Of Women And Powers

Sean watched her.

The thought appeared to be a pleasant one. Her smile widened slightly. Something in her expression became distinctly unfocused. Dreamy, even.

”Olivia,” said Sean.

She didn’t respond.

”Olivia,” said Sean again.

She blinked. Came back. Looked at him.

Sean looked at the corner of her mouth.

Olivia followed his gaze with her fingers.

Her hand flew to her mouth immediately. ”I wasn’t,” she started.

”You were,” said Sean.

”I was just thinking,” said Olivia, her voice slightly muffled behind her hand.

”About what specifically,” said Sean. ”You were thinking quite thoroughly.”

”About the date,” said Olivia, with the specific dignity of someone attempting composure from a position of zero composure.

”Are you still hungry,” said Sean. ”I can order more food.”

”I am completely satisfied,” said Olivia, in the tone of someone who was definitely not going to survive this conversation with her pride intact. ”I am full. I don’t want anything. I was simply thinking.”

”You were drooling,” said Sean.

”I was not drooling,” said Olivia.

”Olivia.”

”I was slightly,” she admitted, her hand still over her mouth, her eyes bright with the specific mortification of someone caught in something they couldn’t argue their way out of. ”It was a compelling thought.”

Sean looked at her for a long moment.

Then he smiled, slow and genuine.

”Come on,” he said, standing. ”I’ll drop you at the agency.”

Olivia stood and grabbed her bag and the folder and pointed at him with her free hand. ”We are never discussing this again.”

”Of course,” said Sean.

”I mean it,” said Olivia.

”Completely understood,” said Sean.

She looked at him. He looked back with the expression of someone who was going to think about this for a very long time and never bring it up and simply carry it as a private source of warmth forever.

”Let’s go,” said Olivia.

===============

James had the car at the curb when they came through the restaurant door, patient as always, the Rolls Royce sitting in the Wednesday afternoon like it belonged to the street rather than the other way around.

Sean held out his hand as they walked toward it.

Olivia took it without making anything of it, their fingers threading together the way they did now, easily and without discussion, the simple habit of two people who had stopped negotiating about whether to be close.

James opened the rear door.

They got in.

The car pulled away from the curb and into the afternoon traffic, the city moving past the windows in its usual indifferent way. Olivia sat close to Sean, the signed folder on her lap, her head tilting toward his shoulder in the specific way of someone who was tired in the good way, the way that came from a morning that had taken everything it asked for and given back considerably more.

He kissed her.

She kissed him back immediately, without hesitation, her hand at his jaw, the folder held carefully in her other arm so it didn’t get crushed, which was somehow the most Olivia thing about the moment, protecting the contract even mid-kiss.

They stayed like that for a while, the car moving through the city, James driving with the specific focused attention of someone who had absolutely no awareness of anything happening in the back seat.

When they broke apart Olivia rested her forehead against his.

”Paris is three days away,” she said quietly.

”Three days,” said Sean.

”That feels both very short and very long,” said Olivia.

”It’s short,” said Sean.

”Easy for you to say,” said Olivia. ”You’re the one going.”

Sean looked at her. She was looking at the signed folder in her arms, her expression carrying the specific warmth of someone who had just had a very significant morning and was now sitting in the back of a car trying to hold all of it at once.

”When I get back,” he said.

”When you get back,” she confirmed.

The car slowed and James indicated and turned onto the street where the agency headquarters sat, the building Olivia had walked out of dozens of times in the last two years and would walk out of differently now.

James pulled to the curb and got out.

He walked around the car and opened Olivia’s door with the quiet professionalism that was simply who James was in every room and every curb and every Wednesday afternoon.

Olivia stepped out.

She turned back to Sean, still in the car, and for a moment she just looked at him the way she looked at him when she’d stopped managing any version of herself.

Then she leaned in and kissed him once more. Slow. The kind that said something specific without needing words for it.

She pulled back.

”Until you come back from Paris,” she said. ”I can’t wait.”

”Me too,” said Sean.

She kissed him one more time, briefer, and then straightened and held the folder against her chest and looked at him with the real smile, the small involuntary one that meant more than any of the performance versions.

”Later,” she said.

She raised her free hand in a small wave.

Sean raised his.

James closed her door gently and came back around to the driver’s seat.

Sean watched Olivia walk through the agency entrance. She didn’t look back, which he understood was intentional, the same way not looking back was always intentional with her.

The door closed behind her.

Sean sat back.

”James,” he said.

”Sir,” said James.

”Élite Fashion,” said Sean.

”Of course, sir,” said James, already pulling back into traffic with the smooth efficiency of someone who had been waiting for exactly that instruction.

Sean looked out the window as the agency building disappeared behind them.

Three days until Paris.’

He put his hand in his jacket pocket and felt Vanessa’s card there, the personal number, the one she’d given him across a store counter when none of this had started yet.

The car moved through the Wednesday afternoon.

He was looking forward to seeing the suit.