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She grins and shakes her head, and I think maybe she’s embarrassed. “Hard to change an accent. Or a ‘dialect.’?”
“I wouldn’t want you to.”
“I wouldn’t care if you did, Sly.” She regards me for a minute, and I can tell she’s thinking something.
“What?” I prompt.
“What kind of ladies go for tall, dark, and Slytherin out there in San Francisco?”
That makes me laugh. “I’m not a Slytherin.”
“What are you then?”
“You already guessed it one time.”
“Oh, because of MIT. You’re saying you’re a Ravenclaw.” She quirks a brow up. “Nah. You ain’t no Ravenclaw.”
“I am. I’m Ravenclaw.”
She shakes her head. “You keep telling yourself that, darlin’. I know if you pull your britches up, you’ve got some green socks hidden underneath there.”
I pull them up and show her my black socks, and she snorts. “Well black’ll do, too—for the devil.”
I rub a hand back through my hair, and she smiles. “You’re a little funnier than I was thinking.”
“So a half step up from total bastard?”
“Maybe like a quarter step.” She sinks a hand into her own hair, which is flowing down around her shoulders.
For a moment, it’s just the wind through the trees. Then she shifts her weight a little, and the swing creaks.
“Entertain me, Sly. Tell me things about you. I’m not taking another Percocet because I’ve gotta watch the kids tonight, but I would like a distraction.”
“Oh, so what I’m hearing is you want a houseguest—me. Someone to put the kids to bed and sleep on the couch to help if they get up at night. Which works out well, because I’m leaving in the morning, and I want to see them more.”
I try to soften my expression so I look like a nice guy. I’m rewarded by another of her googly-eyed skeptical looks.
“First you didn’t do the truck ride. Now you want to spend the night. Is this the prologue of a murder mystery?”
I’m laughing my ass off, so much that she winces. “Shit. I’m sorry.” She looks disgruntled.
“No, it’s not a murder mystery. This is Burke the friend.”
She throws her head back, and her long hair falls over her breasts. “Burke the friend. You should trademark that and make a figurine. What is it they say? That’s rich. And you’re rich, so see, it works.”
She chortles, making me want to deny it. But to her, it must seem like I am. “All my money isn’t really…money.”
She gives me a look that says she thinks I’m completely full of shit, but I shake my head. “It’s not like you think. It’s tied up in investments.” Almost all of it is powering the startup right now. It’s so expansive and complex, it’s going to take a fortune just to get a workable beta running. “It’s not in my bank account,” I assure her.
“Oh yeah, I’m sure none of it’s in your account.”
“Okay, some of it is,” I admit.
She leans back a little, picking at one of her fingernails before flicking her gaze back up to mine. “You need to drink some more so I can ask you what it’s like to have that much money, and you can tell me.”
“I can tell you now, I guess.”
She arches a brow—an expression that should be dubbed the June Sees Through You. “When you buy food,” she says with a blink and a faint accusing edge, “do you ever think about the price of things?”
I swallow…press my lips together.
“Mmm-hmm, didn’t think so. What about clothes shopping? Do you buy your own stuff?”
Well, shit. How do I tell her my assistant does it? She laughs. “Lord, who does it?”
I’m not saying “my assistant,” so I say, “Someone in my office.” I tug at my shirt, hoping for a little relatable levity. “In fact, she got my last round of shirts a size too small.”
“That does explain why I’d need some Paraflexx to peel it off you.”
I flash her a grin as I notice she said “I” when speaking about who might pull it off me, and it’s her turn to look awkward. “Not I,” she quickly clarifies. “Somebody who wants to do that.”
I let out a whoop. “Ms. Lawler with the burn.” She shakes her head and rolls her eyes.
“What is Paraflexx?” I ask.
“Next question.” She sits up a little, her eyes brightening like she just remembered something. “Do you cook your own food?”
“No, but I—”
“Next question.” I widen my eyes and fix them on her face, and she locks her gaze onto mine like this is a fourth-grade staring contest. “Do you have more than one car?” She puts emphasis on the end of the sentence, inflecting it less like a question and more like an accusation.
I feel guilty.
“I’m guessing that the forehead rumple is a ‘yes ma’am.’ Is that your official answer, Mr. Masterson?”
I bite my lip, and she shakes her head. “How many?”
