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I poured us both a glass of red wine from a bottle my aunt had opened and corked, not wanting to mix liquor with what we drank at dinner. God knows I didn’t handle the hard liquor well around this guy, and I wasn’t trying to act like I could, either.
“Here,” I handed him his glass. “Have a seat and quit prying into my personal life.”
As John sipped the wine, I saw his eyes do a double take on the contents of his glass while he sat in the Victorian-style chair across from where I tucked my legs up and under me on the sofa.
“I didn’t roofie it if you’re looking for drug residue,” I laughed.
“So, you live in a multi-million-dollar home in Los Feliz, work as a resident at the hospital, have no student loans to speak of?—”
“I never said I didn’t have student loan debt,” I said, smiling at him as he tried to figure out my financial situation.
“And you poured me a glass of wine from a bottle that costs over a grand,” he said, reclining as if he’d hit the gold mine.
“So?” I answered. “I think the more pressing question is why money—or rather, the appearance of me having money— matters to you?”
He grinned and took another sip of wine. “It’s not the appearance,” he responded. “I’m drinking a glass of Giacomo Conterno Monfortino Barolo Riserva. You seem to know your wines.”
I honestly had no idea it wasn’t a fifteen-dollar bottle of wine from the grocery store, and I couldn’t have used that Italian accent he used to pronounce that name if I tried.
“You seem to know your wines extremely well,” I offered, curious if he was the kind of guy who was materialistic and superficial. “Let me guess. You only date wealthy women?”
He smiled, “Why would you come to that conclusion?”
“Well, you can get any woman you want by your looks alone, so I’d venture to guess that you only date wealthy women and use them for their money,” I teased, seeing the playfulness in his eyes as I tried to profile him, “and that’s most likely how you know about fine wines, Dr. Aster. You’re a sugar baby.”
I watched as he struggled to swallow the small sip of wine he’d taken instead of spewing it all over my aunt’s white carpet.
“You’re hilarious,” he answered, clearing his throat. “And I won’t lie. I’ve been known to date wealthy women, but it would be inaccurate to say I used them for their money.”
“Well, I’m sure you used them for plenty of other things, but their having money was certainly a perk.”
“Are you trying to say I’m a sugar baby and a gold digger, gorgeous?”
“Hey, someone’s got to pay for that expensive-ass car parked in front of this house.”
He chuckled. “This is hardly a house,” he said. “It’s a goddamn estate.”
“It is pretty great, right?” I said, looking around.
“Old Hollywood, man. It’s—I don’t know. Glamorous, you know? There’s nothing else like it.”
“I know, I love it,” I said, admiring the charm of this room, my favorite room in the house.
“Seriously,” he answered, his expression more charming than mischievous. “Who the hell are you to have all this shit? I mean, not financially speaking, but here you are with a love for obstetrics, and you live in this home. It doesn’t really add up, but I find it all quite intriguing.”
“I’m glad you find it all?—”
“Let’s cut the bullshit, Mick,” he said, setting his glass to the side and leaning both elbows on his knees as if he were about to interrogate me. “Who the hell are you? And don’t tell me some cheerleader from Tennessee, either.”
“Far from that, but I am from Tennessee.”
“I know that,” he said. “On the rare occasion you’ve spoken of your personal life, you mentioned that one.”
“You want to know who I am? Okay.” I sat up a little straighter before continuing, “I love swimming, but that was cut short after I got into a car accident.”
“Jesus,” he said. “What happened?”
“Me and my friends were hit by a drunk driver on our way home from a swim meet.”
