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“I’m presenting; that doesn’t mean the account will be mine.” I sincerely hope the account will be mine, but there’s always the possibility that I’ll say something dumb or mess up and screw my chances. Usually with work stuff I keep it together, unlike in real life when my censor button isn’t required most of the time.
“Come on, Vi, you know if you rock it they’re giving you the account. And with you managing Butterson’s finances, and marrying Waters, you’ve got it in the bag.” Dean doesn’t sound encouraging, more like he’s irritated and jealous.
“I don’t manage Alex’s money.”
“He’s got contacts, though, obviously, and you’ll be managing his money soon enough. Or is he making you sign a pre-nup?”
“Say what now?” I stumble when I hit a slippery patch on the sidewalk and grab Charlene’s arm for balance.
“You can’t honestly think he’ll marry you without a pre-nup. I mean, he’s worth a fortune. His house alone has to be worth two-point-five mil, and all the other property he owns, plus bank?”
I frown. “He’s never mentioned a pre-nup.”
“They haven’t even set a date yet, Dean,” Charlene snaps.
“I’m just saying, don’t be surprised if he does. He’s protecting his assets. You can hardly blame him.”
I don’t say anything in response. Obviously I have no desire to bleed Alex dry should our relationship not work out the way we intend, but a pre-nup seems a lot like failure is an expectation. This indicates again why I need to keep this job. I can’t imagine being left with nothing and no employment prospects. I guess I can see Dean’s point, but it would kind of hurt if Alex dropped something like that on me without discussing it first.
Especially since he’s constantly throwing money at me. He’ll ask me to buy something sexy for one of our date nights and then drop three thousand dollars in my account. What the hell kind of sex wear am I buying? One of these days I’m going to bedazzle my vagina with Swarovski crystals to be a smart ass.
“So anyway, back to my original question…” Dean looks at me expectantly. When I stare blankly back, he rolls his eyes. “Waters? How does he feel about the Darcy account?”
“He’s happy for me, I guess?” Despite his repeated comments about quitting my job, he did want to celebrate me getting to present, so that has to be good.
“Really? Huh.” Dean raises his perfectly groomed villain eyebrows and opens the door to the café, ushering Charlene and me in ahead of him.
I accept his chivalry. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Dean blinks innocently. “Nothing.”
We get in line, and I look to Charlene, who’s doing a terrible job of ignoring me while she reads the menu. She points enthusiastically at the special. “Oh, look! They have mushroom quiche!”
I wrinkle my nose. “Mushrooms are disgusting. They remind me of severed dick heads.”
Dean makes a gagging sound. “You need a therapist, Violet.”
“People who eat mushrooms need therapists,” I shoot back.
“Shh!” Charlene warns.
I roll my eyes; it’s a noisy café. “No one cares about my aversion to phallus-shaped fungus.”
A tiny old lady in front of us turns to glare. I guess her hearing aids are working fine. I smile at her until she looks away, and then address Charlene. “So I don’t get it. What’s the deal with the Darcy account? I mean, aside from everyone being pissed that I might get it even though I don’t have any real experience dealing with massive amounts of money, other than Buck’s.”
She and Dean exchange another look.
I throw up my hands. “Seriously, you two, if you’re trying to be incognito about this crap you’re failing. What’s the damn deal?”
Dean tries to smirk, but it looks more like a weird facial tic. “I’m guessing you haven’t heard the rumors.”
“What rumors?” Sometimes Dean is worse with gossip than a thirteen-year-old girl. Occasionally his style is also reminiscent of that particular age group.
“They’re swingers.”
I blink at him. It’s loud in here. Maybe I heard him wrong. “Pardon?”
“Swingers.” He says it slowly, making it two distinct syllables—like I’m an idiot, which admittedly, sometimes I am. But he’s being a jerk, and not in a funny way. More of an intentionally antagonistic way.
“I’m assuming you don’t mean they have a trapeze-artist fetish or something.”
“Nope.”
“So, like, they sleep with other people’s significant others?” Who the hell does that in this decade?
“That’s the rumor.”
“Well, where did the rumor come from? And how do you know it’s even true? I mean, let’s be logical. People used to think Alex was a manwhore who slept with three chicks in one night, and we all know that’s not true.”
“We don’t really know, though, do we? He just told you it didn’t happen, and you believe him,” Dean points out.
“He refuted the evidence, and the people who were with him that night corroborated it,” I reply.
