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I finger my chin, my curiosity piqued. The need to know what happened is greater than the desire to stick it to him. Plus, I have nowhere else to be right now. My schedule’s wide open and consists mainly of staring at the walls in my apartment.
“All right.” I cross the tiny space between the door and my vanity, plopping onto a chair opposite him. “But be quick about it.”
He shakes his head. “Not here.”
“Why?”
“We could be seen.”
“And?” I narrow my eyes at him.
“And I don’t want to be affiliated with you for numerous reasons, all of them highly logical.” He spells it out for me. “The main one beingthat, technically speaking, I’m your employer. We shouldn’t be in a closed room together.”
“Gosh,employer. That’s a big word for someone who barely pays us minimum wage around here.”
He grins again, satisfied with the trouble I’m giving him. “It’s a free country. If you wish to be employed somewhere else, I’d be the last person to stop you.”
“I’m not going to your apartment.” I bring the conversation back to its original topic.
“You wound me, Bumpkin.” He stands up, buttoning his blazer. “I’d never make a pass at an employee. That’s bad taste and dubious ethics.”
“Aren’t those your defining traits?” I arch an eyebrow.
To this, he full-blown laughs. “I’ll call us two separate taxis. What’s your pants size?”
“Hmm, let me see.” I twist in my seat, tugging at the size tag of my jeans. “Says here none of your business.”
Another sincere laugh escapes him. “My apologies for upsetting your southern notions. See, here in New York, women don’t let their dress size define them.”
“My size doesn’t define me. My right not to answer your personal questions does.”
“Humor me anyway, just for funsies.” His smile—when done right—can make a woman weak in the knees. Dimpled and boyish, with just the right amount of snark. Poor Grace stood no chance. I wonder if they got it on while they were under the same roof.Of coursethey did. Well, that’s kind of hot.
Since when do I think about things that are hot?
“Small or medium.” I purse my lips. “Now my turn to ask a question—how old are you, exactly?”
“Exactly? Thirty-five, seven months, three days, and ...” He glances down at his watch. “Eleven hours, give or take.”
He feels much older to me, and I’m twenty-eight. Maybe because he has that larger-than-life aura.
“A taxi will arrive for you in eight minutes. But first, go change into men’s clothes,” Arsène instructs, standing up.
“What’s wrong with my current clothes?” I look down. I’m wearing a pink tank top and a pair of casual jeans from the GAP. My sandals are a hand-me-down pair from Lizzy.
“Nothing at all,” he assures me smoothly. “All the same, I do need you to look a little more masculine.”
“Masculine?”
“Yes. You need to dress as a man.”
“Where the hell are you taking me?”
He is already out the door, his back to me. “You’ll see.”
The taxi pulls out in front of a white beaux arts building. It is vast and stunning and looks ancient. What is it? A hotel? An office building? My senses kick into overdrive. I haven’t had this much adrenaline coursing through my veins since ... since ...
Never. No one ever pushed you that far out of your comfort zone.
