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Dane idly drummed his fingers on the arm of the sofa. “She called me the morning after the gala and apologized. Apparently, it stung her ego to see me happy with you the way I never was with her. She said she’d apologize to you the next time she saw you.”
Huh. Well I’d accept it gracefully, but I wouldn’t particularly care to hear it. Snobs weren’t my kind of people.
I tilted my head. “Back to what you said before … someone really tried to extract your come out of a condom? Seriously?”
He nodded.
I could only shake my head in wonder. “I didn’t know people did stuff like that. I mean, I know there are women who’ll deliberately get pregnant in the hope of using the kid as a meal ticket.” Hell, Heather was one of them. “But not go that far to get pregnant. What did the woman say when you caught her?”
“That I wasn’t supposed to walk into a bathroom without knocking.”
“That’s … wow. Just wow.” Hearing he’d had a vasectomy wasn’t as much of a shock, though. I’d once overheard Dane say that he had no interest in having children.
“Next time Travis bothers you, call me straight away,” said Dane. “I wish I could tell you he’ll leave you alone after we’re married, but I can’t guarantee that. If you and I were to divorce before the year was up, I’d be denied access to my trust fund—he knows that.”
“Are you going to confront him about this?”
“Yes. He’ll no doubt lie that you put words into his mouth.”
Probably. Because, as Hanna often claimed, the guy was a weasel. “He said something else.”
“What?”
“He said your father messed all of you up, and that the death of someone called Oliver made it worse.”
Dane’s gaze seemed to ice over; it honestly chilled me just a little. “Travis will no doubt say a lot of things to you,” he said, his tone neutral.
“Truths or lies?”
“Probably a little of both.”
“And you’re not going to tell me more about your father or who Oliver is?”
“You don’t need to know.”
I almost flinched. Not at his words, but at the way he’d said them. His tone had been sharp. Hard. So cold I was surprised the air hadn’t frosted. Making it clear I’d crossed a line.
Well, that put me in my place, didn’t it?
To be fair to him, this wasn’t a relationship. He didn’t owe me explanations. And there were plenty of things I hadn’t told him. Things I’d prefer to never tell him. So, yeah, I’d be a complete hypocrite if I pushed him on this.
I was more annoyed by the fact that I cared that he wouldn’t tell me. It shouldn’t hurt. There was no reason for it to do so. And yet, my chest felt tight.
Had I somehow let myself get pulled into the fantasy that our relationship was real? I hadn’t thought so. I’d thought I was doing fine at keeping it straight in my head that it was all fake. But maybe I was wrong, because I’d slipped here. Before the fake-dating began, I never would have asked him personal questions, and I definitely wouldn’t have felt hurt if he hadn’t wanted to share something personal.
Shit, this wasn’t good. Not at all. I couldn’t afford to let it all get blurred in my head.
We weren’t dating. We weren’t bed-buddies. Hell, we weren’t even friends. He was my boss, and I was his PA—that was the extent of our relationship. I couldn’t let myself forget that. Not even for a moment.
Wrapping my PA-cloak tight around me, I stood. “You have a conference call in fifteen minutes, so I’ll head back to my desk. Buzz me if you need anything.” I turned and made my way to the door.
“Vienna?” he said when I reached for the doorknob.
I glanced at him over my shoulder. “Yes?”
He watched me closely, those dark, far-too-perceptive eyes roaming over my face. He opened his mouth to speak, but then his cell phone began to chime. He reached for it, just as I’d known he would—work always came first to Dane. “We’ll talk later,” he said to me.
I nodded, though I wasn’t whatsoever looking forward to it.
Fortunately, he got called out of the office and didn’t return to the building before the end of the workday. That meant I could leave and spend the evening shoring up my defenses against this man who’d sneakily found his way around them without even trying or knowing.
I was almost home when Ashley called and asked if I’d meet her at the local ice cream parlor—apparently, Tucker had pissed her off again and so she’d stormed out of their apartment.
Inside the parlor, we sat at one of the metal tables. A few other customers sat around, filling the space with the sounds of chatter, laughter, and the crunch of ice cream cones.
