"Cyber security. Family business." He makes a face. "Board meetings, investor reports, optics."
"Optics?"
"Making sure people see what you want them to see and nothing more."
"Like pretending?"
He chuckles. "Sometimes."
"Yikes." I laugh. "That sounds exhausting."
Suddenly, my mom's voice echoes in my head.Don't let a man weave an illusion around you.Asher just admitted he manipulates. That he pretends. But then I think it through. My dad would never have admitted something like that, whereas Asher's being honest about it with me. That's different from what my dad did. Asher's not hiding it.
And it's just work stuff—corporate image management, not personal. I'm being paranoid, reading too much into a throwaway comment.
"My dad thinks perception is half the battle," Asher says. "To him, reputation is everything."
Maybe all dads are assholes. Mine certainly was. Asher reaches across the table and takes my hand. Just like that. Like touching me is the most natural thing in the world.
"I like you, Julie."
My heart gives one stupid little kick. "You don't even know me."
His thumb brushes over my knuckles. Once. Slowly. "True." His eyes stay on mine. "But I'd like the chance to."
That should make me feel less nervous. It doesn't. Instead, I become acutely aware of the way his thumb is still moving over my hand. I pull away. "I don't usually do this," I say.
"Crash into luxury vehicles?"
I laugh before I can stop myself. "That too, but I meant go to coffee with strangers."
"We're not strangers anymore."
"We're not exactly lifelong friends either."
"No." His smile softens. "Not yet."
It's like he's already decided this is going somewhere and is simply waiting for me to catch up. "Dinner," he says.
I blink. "What?"
"Tonight." Then he tilts his head, like he's reconsidering. "Or not tonight. Tomorrow. Next week. Whenever you're comfortable."
"You're very confident."
"I'm very interested."
I study him for a second, looking for the thing that should make me say no. The arrogance. The game. The rich-guy entitlement. Something. But all I find is a man looking at me like walking away would be the dumbest thing either of us could do. And I wonder if maybe he's right. I guess I should find out.
"Alright. Tonight," I hear myself say.
His smile makes me feel like I've just handed him something valuable. "Tonight," he repeats.
He picks me up at six. When I open my apartment door, he's standing there in dark jeans and a button-down that makes him look effortlessly hot, holding a single white tulip. I pull up short.
"You remembered."
"Of course I remembered." He looks almost pleased with himself, then seems to catch it and softens. "You said they make you happy."
