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“Really? I would love to go to…” she trails off, realizing her error, and of course, I have to leap all over it.
“Yes! That’s it. I’ll find something, and I’ll take you.”
I have a private jet ride over to somewhere in Europe in mind. I’d buy out the whole house, and it would be just us. We’d watch a performance put on just for two people. Then we’d go to a five-star restaurant somewhere and end the night in a hotel suite.
Except I can’t do any of that because Emily isn’t really my girlfriend. As much as another woman might like it and has liked it because I’ve done all that before, I have the feeling Emily wouldn’t enjoy it even if we really were dating. She’d protest that it was too extravagant, too much, and too not her. She’d probably tell me the money could be put to better use. I bet she’s going to use the money I’m giving her for this for home repairs, or she’ll give it to her parents for their mortgage or something because she’s a good person, and of course, she’d think about others or something practical before treating herself.
“You have the strangest look right now. Are the tacos fighting back again?”
I exhale loudly, wiping the images of Emily in a hotel suite wearing nothing but my shirt, or maybe absolutely nothing, away. “Nope. I guess it’s just what I look like when I’m thinking.”
She lets out a loud bark of laughter. “Oh god. That’s frightening. Or not frightening, but you know. Sorry, that’s rude. Just forget that.”
We’re nearly at the end of the park again, and I realize I’ve told her almost nothing, and yet somehow, I’ve told her everything.
“You know, I had a really good time actually,” Emily says when we’re back in the car.
“Like you might want to do it again?”
“Ha.” She mimics laughter. “You wish. But I guess I’m going to be forced to, aren’t I?”
“Forced is such a harsh word.”
“Blackmailed?”
“Better.”
“Persuaded by money and what you think is a charming smile?”
“Hey! What’s wrong with my smile?”
“Nothing.” Emily pauses. “Next date, we should go for tacos.”
“Very funny.” I use a tone drenched in dryness and then start the car.
Emily, at least, is entertained by this, and for some reason, it makes me happy. “Followed up by a show?” she suggests, all innocent, but I can tell she’s barely clamping down on the riotous laughter.
“A show, we can do. I’ll find something special.”
“Why does that sound terrifying?”
“Terrifying? No. It sounds wonderful. Just trust me.” She feigns more terror at that prospect.
“Let me guess,” she cuts in before I can add anything convincing onto the end of a statement about trust when I’ve paid her to date me even though she barely knows me, screwed up her brand new table, and then ruined a movie with flatulence. “If the trusting thing doesn’t work, I should just smile and shrug.”
“Now you’re catching on.”
“Good lord.” She shakes her head at me, but there is indeed a hint of a smile there.
That’s a start. Now I just have to teach her how to give a proper—I don’t give two shats about the world and all its nonsense—shrug.
CHAPTER 10
Emily
How does one exactly barge into one’s boss’s office and demand the money he owes her because a certain situation has arisen? I suppose dripping wet after being caught in a straight-up downpour from hell on one’s way to work is how.
I burst through the open door of Asher’s palatial office. Seriously, I wasn’t even aware this place had an office this size. I shut the door behind me, push my soaking wet strands of red hair out of my eyes, and barely refrain from shaking out my wet clothes like a sopping wet mutt. The only difference between a dog and me right now is that dogs generally like to be wet and muddy. Me, on the other hand, not so much. It doesn’t help that as I was running from the parking lot four blocks over, various cars passed me, spraying muddy water all over me more than once.
“Emily!” Asher jumps out of his desk chair and walks over in a few purposeful strides.
As usual, he’s the picture of power and masculine grace. Dark hair neatly combed, white shirt pressed just so, pants probably pressed though not with those strange creases of yesteryear, and expensive leather shoes all polished right up.
I doubt he even knows what fair trade fashion is even though he owns this place.
His eyes start at my toes and do a slow, heated perusal over my sorry state. His pupils grow a shade or two larger, and his eyes stop at my chest, then flare. I glance down frantically, then let out a screech and fold my arms over my chest. Not only did I make the absolute shittiest choice and wear a white blouse, but I also wore a white bra. Not the pushup, super padded kind either. My nipples are practically poking through both clothing items, and even if they aren’t on full display, they’re certainly perky enough to get some notice.
