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“She is,” he agrees, “and brilliant.”
“Right,” I agree, recalling that she’s a human rights lawyer. That’s not intimidating at all. Why on earth would his mother set me up with Warren when this is the kind of woman he’s clearly into?
“Girlfriend was a stretch, no?” There’s a hint of a smile in his voice as he reminds me that I just updated our relationship status from nonexistent to exclusive.
“Well. Your mom offered me twenty bucks to be convincing.” I shrug. She didn’t, but I don’t have a better excuse.
“Ah.” He nods. I’m not sure if he believes me or not, but he seems content to drop it. “I trust my brother kept you entertained while I was busy?”
“Were you jealous?” I perk up, a lot excited at the idea.
“Of my little brother?” He frowns, shaking his head slowly, while looking at me like I’m nuts. “No.”
Oh.
Welp.
“So why’d you break up?” I ask, moving the conversation back to his ex-wife.
There’s a long pause in which I’m not sure he’s going to answer me. I’m not sure what possessed me to ask. It’s so far from my business.
“We were young.”
“You were my age when you got married,” I say, not buying the answer.
“Exactly. Young.”
“You think I’m too young?” I’m offended by the implication. “I’m nearly a decade past legal. I’ve been around. I’ve seen things.”
“You’ve seen things?” He raises a brow at my claim on worldly knowledge. Jerk.
“Whatever.” I shrug a shoulder in dismissal.
“I’m sure you’re not as stupid as I was in my twenties.” He relents as some kind of peace offering.
“Aww, Gov. Your flirting skills are something.” I playfully nudge his arm. Fine, that was just another excuse to touch him.
“I’m difficult to live with,” he finally says. “I believe she found me to be demanding. Aloof. Arrogant. And”—he pauses again, turning to look directly at me—“surly,” he finishes, repeating the list of traits I told him people associate him with. But he smiles with the final word, totally destroying the entire list, and me. Also, his gaze drops to my lips and I’m one hundred percent certain it’s not because I have something stuck in my teeth. I’m certain because I just freshened my lipstick in the women’s room and I triple-checked for anything that would cause me a decade of embarrassment before I left the restroom. Nothing in my teeth. Lipstick perfectly applied. No toilet paper stuck to my heel.
“Well. If it helps, some women are into all that.”
Me. I’m into it. Anyone who is not feeling his vibe is a crazy person. Call him surly or bossy or whatever, effective leadership gets me all kinds of hot and bothered.
He stares at me for a long moment, studying me as if he finds me fascinating, or crazy. Hard to tell.
Finally he speaks.
“Don’t fall in love with me. I’m not in the mood.”
Chapter Seven
Don’t fall in love with me?
Whatever.
Who even says something like that? As if I was going to fall in love with him. I was offering to make out, not pledging love till death do us part.
Ugh. No wonder his mother has to set him up.
Also, thank God this wedding has an open bar. A little after-dinner drink will pair nicely with my hurt feelings. I get an amaretto. I have no idea if I like amaretto, but I saw someone else ordering one and it looked like the kind of drink a sophisticated grownup would drink. Plus it’s free.
Mrs Bianchi finds me while I’m sipping on my drink and pondering how annoying her son is. Like, seriously annoying. The problem is, I can’t take my eyes off of him. He’s got that magnetic thing about him that draws a person in. Or draws me in, anyway. Side note, amaretto is delicious. I’m a sophisticated woman who drinks amaretto now, not hard seltzer out of a can.
“Thank goodness I have Warren sorted out,” she says the moment she reaches my side. “Now I can focus on James. That one gives me a headache. Oy.”
“James?” I reply with an eager smile because Mrs Bianchi makes me laugh. As does the idea that she has Warren sorted out. With me. She’s so way off. Her vibe-o-meter, mother’s intuition, Very Good Feeling is broken. I still find her very amusing though. I bet she’s a real good time on a girls’ trip. “What’s the problem? He brought a date.”
“He’s trying my patience. All these women like he’s working his way through a vending machine. I’m so sick of his playboy bullshit.”
“Mrs Bianchi, I don’t think you’re allowed to say that about your own son,” I say, trying to hold back a laugh. “Though as a woman, I appreciate your honesty.”
“I birthed him. I can say what I like.” She shrugs off my attempt at adherence to social niceties. “New girl every time I see him and I never get the Very Good Feeling about any of them. Not like with you.”
