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People think that children who are the product of a divorce have fucked-up relationships. They’re wrong. People who are the product of broken homes try really fucking hard not to repeat their parents’ mistakes, because they know the misery of a loveless house.
People like me, people who saw their parents sneaking kisses in the park, and laughing under the sun when they didn’t even know how to pay for their next electricity bill or my textbooks for next year, were the bastards. I had high expectations, and so far, I hadn’t met a woman who was a candidate to meet them.
Problem was, I didn’t need someone to meet them. At this point, with my baggage, I needed someone to smash them.
Which was why I knew Katie and I were going to fail on our date tonight.
I’d agreed to go out with Katie for selfish reasons. I thought by going and not speaking a word to her, and being a complete asshole, Mel would finally give up on trying to fix me up with her friends. Katie was the first date I’d agreed to and, if things went according to my plan, she was also going to be my last.
Camila had Friday nights off. It was non-negotiable. Those were her nights with her grandson. So, I needed a babysitter.
Which was the only reason why I stopped at her desk first thing in the morning.
Edie’s head was bent, and she was typing something on her laptop, frowning. Her teeth rolled a pencil back and forth in her mouth, and I tried not to pay attention. I set my Starbucks down on her desk and snapped my fingers in front of her face. She looked up slowly, arching a questioning eyebrow.
“Hey,” I said. Hey. I never greeted anyone like this. Not a co-worker, anyway. I usually dove straight to the point. She didn’t answer, but at least she looked calm. I wasn’t sure why I was expecting her not to be. So what if she wanted to fuck me? She was a teenage girl. She’d want to fuck any tall, dark, handsome type who didn’t smell like puke. And let’s not forget she was not exactly in a position to give me shit. I knew why she’d come into my office. My flash drive held all the files and spreadsheets to my connections and companies. I had big plans for my career, and her father wasn’t part of them. How he’d gotten her to help him, I wasn’t sure, but what I knew was that Edie Van Der Zee was not Team Rexroth, and therefore should be regarded with suspicion.
“Are you going to say what you came here for, or just wait until your friends fetch you up from this spot for lunch?” she inquired, folding her arms over her chest.
“I need a babysitter for tonight.” I ignored her snark. It was beneath me.
“What for?”
“I’m going out.”
“Who with?”
“None of your goddamn business.”
“Au contraire, Mr. Rexroth. If you feel comfortable enough telling me who I should and shouldn’t sleep with, I think you at least owe me this.”
I slammed my hand on her desk and leaned down, baring my teeth. “First of all, lower your voice before I really flip my shit. Spoiler alert: it ain’t gonna be pretty. Second of all, wrong again. I never told you who you shouldn’t sleep with. I told you you can’t sleep with anyone. Pay attention, sweetheart. That’s the second lesson you’re failing.”
She threw her head back and laughed, showing me her white, crooked-at-the-front teeth. They were beautiful. So was she, and there was no point denying it. I straightened my posture, ignoring my clenching jaw.
“I love your double standards. Especially after yesterday. Has anyone ever told you you’re funny?”
“No,” I grumbled.
“That’s because you aren’t. What you are is seriously annoying.”
This was getting out of control, and fast. I let loose a thin smile, smoothing my crisp white shirt. “In my office, Van Der Zee. You have ten seconds to follow me.”
She huffed, but I heard her shoes clicking behind me. We got into my office. I closed the door. The floor was busy, and I knew people were going to start asking questions soon. I was the only one out of the four original founders who’d spared her a minute of his day. And she was in my office. All the time.
“I expect you to be there at seven.” I fell into my seat behind my desk and jotted down my address on a Post-it note.
She stood by the door, letting the handle dig into her back, and stared at me with murder in her eyes. “I’m not coming until you tell me where you’re going.”
“I’m going on a date.”
“You don’t date,” she retorted, no emotion to her voice.
Finally, I looked up. “And why the fuck would you say that?”
