Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
I give an uncomfortable shrug. “That’s why I was so desperate earlier.”
“Why the hell are you still working there?” he asks with a serious frown.
“I have plans,” I say, not willing to give them away. To jinx them. “I know I’m not perfect, and in some ways, I’ve brought this on myself.”
“Fuck that,” he says immediately. Passionately.
“I just mean my smart mouth seems to encourage him. But you know that old saying, if you run into an asshole in the morning, you run into an asshole, but if you run into assholes all day, you’re the asshole?”
“And that’s not you.”
“That’s not me. I know I’m kind of prickly, but I’m more than aware of my own flaws.” But even if Brandon’s interest was genuine and he gave me flowers in place of intimidation, I still wouldn’t date him. I won’t ever get involved with another man in finance. Too much drama. Too much trauma.
“I just wanna get tonight over with.” My words feel brittle. “We only need to stay long enough to make a point.” And not long enough for anyone to realize Matt isn’t a Spanish artist called Nate.
“And the point is that you’re taken? Or that they should pull their heads out of their arses and join the new century?”
“Both works for me.”
“Then I think we should dance. So you can show me off to the whole office, the big strappin’ lad that I am.”
I tsk. “Such a peacock.”
“Are you gonna want to congratulate the happy couple?”
I glance down and smooth my hand over the tablecloth. “Want might be putting it a little strongly.” Fun times to be had by all, right?
“What’s he gonna think about me?”
“I don’t give a flying fuck.”
“But you know he’s not gonna like it. He’s still part of the reason I’m here.”
I guess that’s true—no point in arguing. “Pete traded up.”
“Fucked up, more like. But getting back to me, the peacock.”
I give a tiny laugh. “Oh, so you admit it?”
He almost rolls his eyes. “Do you want to know the reason I’m here? And I don’t mean them.” He glances across the table to the chairs yet to be filled. “The reason I came with you? It’s because you intrigue the hell out of me.”
Intriguing. That’s more than I expected. Better than pretty or hot or any of that mundane stuff. And boy, do I soak up his regard like a sponge, no words between us, just a thousand crazy ideas. Then I remember what he does for a living—again—and the pleasure swelling in my chest pops like a painful blister.
“You’re good at this,” I say like I know what I’m talking about.
Something clouds his expression before he gives a nod, his fingers rubbing across a suddenly taut jaw. “The thing is, I mean it.”
“Small talk,” I almost shout. “We should . . . talk.”
“I did suggest that earlier.”
“Did you? I don’t recall.”
“Tell me something,” he purrs, and I remember. “Tell me something about Ryan.”
“Now, there’s a can of worms you really don’t want to open.”
“Fuck that. Tell me all the things.”
“You asked for it,” I say. Though it sounds more like Your funeral. “I’m an only child. Adult orphan.” I pull a stupidly sad face and make a crying gesture with my index finger before realizing I have no idea why I told him. “Favorite food?” I hedge, and he nods. “Carnitas, specifically from a Mexican place in FiDi. Oh, and zeppole. Can’t forget zeppole.”
“Specifically from?”
“Someplace midtown.” Zeppole. My having-a-good-day treat, probably because the taste reminds me of times past. Of elephant ears, of podunk towns and country fairs. “Pastimes?” I rush on, conscious of revealing too much.
“Anything. Everything.”
“I love my job—I think I already said that. If I’m not working, I’m thinking about working. It’s the best thing ever when my instincts are on point.”
“They must love you.” That doesn’t sound like a compliment.
“Yeah, especially as they got me cheap.”
“The fuck?” he mutters. “You’re really not selling this outfit.”
But I know I was lucky to get a job here. I likely only got an interview because of my name. Like they confused me for a guy. I don’t have an MBA from Harvard, and I didn’t go to business school. I started at an investment bank with a degree from a mediocre college I worked my ass off to put myself through. The bank job was a back-end role, and I just got lucky. Asked a lot of questions. Learned about the business. And once I had my butt in the interview seat, my ego did the rest. But yeah, they got me cheap.
“I’m not complaining. The industry is notorious for underpaying women, but my bonus kind of makes up for things. What else?” I ponder, refusing to return to our stare fest. “I’m not big on friends. Or people generally. I’m impulsive, quick to judge, opinionated . . . and I can’t cook.”