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I flush, dropping my eyes to my lap as the aching hot space between my legs clenches.
“I’m only here to interview you, Stefan,” I say, working to keep my voice steady. “We’re not going to have sex.”
“Ah, don’t be so uptight.” His laugh fills my ears again, and my stomach leaps into my chest.
“I’m not uptight,” I snap, growing angrier and angrier with myself. The light turns green, but he doesn’t go. He looks at me instead, those hauntingly blue eyes hidden behind black shades sear into me.
“You’re right. We’re not going to have sex. Yet.”
My nails are digging into my palms again. I should’ve worn panties. My upper thighs are getting slippery as I fidget in my seat. The car moves after someone beeps their horn.
The rest of the ride is mostly silent, because I refuse to answer any of his prying questions. The air is charged and stuffy despite the blast of the AC. I wonder if he can feel it. I’m suffocating in it.
When the car stops, I recognize the familiar storefront of The Soaring Biscuit, a popular diner in downtown Birmingham. My surprise that he actually got a parking space in the front fades as it registers that this is where he intends for us to eat. The Soaring Biscuit is known for its amazing food, yes, but it’s also beloved for its cheap menu and drinks. I can feel my temper sparking.
The heat attacks me instantly when I open my own door making the AC inside the little diner so much more delicious. The young hostess that meets us at a scratched and chipped podium smiles hard at Stefan and bites her lip when he removes his shades.
He asks for a booth for two, and smiles his gratitude when she obliges, coloring her cheeks in a deep blush. I roll my eyes when she cuts in front of me to follow him to the booth he wants and hands him both our menus when we sit down, like I’m not even there.
“Please let me know if you need anything else. Please. I’ll just be right there,” she says, leaning over him to open his menu for him. He thanks her and hands me a menu. I watch her look back three solid times before she actually makes it to her post at the podium. He’s watching me when I turn back around in my seat. His smirk widens when I glare at him.
“I’m sure you enjoyed that,” I say icily as I unfold the menu and glare at the text.
“Not as much as watching the way it bothered you.” He laughs. I have to fight the urge to jam my heel into his shin and focus, instead, on what I’m going to order.
Luckily, our server is a man who looks to be in his thirties. He introduces himself as Frank, and leaves after we both order coffees. I grab my phone and open the recording app, before reaching into my bag and grabbing my notebook.
“Let’s get this over with, shall we?”
“Don’t sound so excited,” he says, licking his bottom lip. My eyes lock into the smooth motion of his tongue and then lingers on his lips before I remember what I’m supposed to be doing. Breathing deeply, I start the recording.
“Do I have your permission to record this interview?” I ask. He nods. Frank brings our coffees and takes our orders before leaving again. I start the interview with a general question about his childhood.
“It’s really nothing special. My parents had six kids in total. I’m the oldest. I have three little sisters and two little brothers. My dad died when I was twelve leaving us penniless. Mom ended up on welfare and food stamps to keep us afloat. We lost our house to foreclosure, and that’s kind of where my interest in real estate started.”
My eyes are wide and my mouth is open as my pen hovers over my paper. That’s far from what I expected to hear. I was sure he was a spoiled prince who grew his wealth from daddy’s blessing of a huge initial investment.
“What?” he asks, stirring sugar in his coffee. I cough to clear my throat, hoping my blush isn’t too obvious.
“I’m sorry about your dad, actually about that whole story. That’s terrible.”
He grins. “Is the little cat retracting her claws?”
My eyes narrow, and my jaw clenches as I fight to push down my annoyance and ignore that ignorant comment.
My next question is about how he got started in real estate and before I know it, my inner journalist takes over and sucks me in. 45 minutes later our food is barely touched, and I’m leaning in so far across the table, enraptured by his story, that my breasts are pressed flat against the wood.
“You lost it all?” I gasp, my heart hammering. He nods.
“My partner stole it all. I had to cancel the contract. I lost the earnest money obviously, which was a gut punch in and of itself, but the worst part was the meeting I held to inform my investors that I lost all of their money. I wanted to quit after that.”
“Oh my God,” I whisper, sitting back in my seat. I don’t know what I would’ve done if I lost millions of dollars of other people’s money.
“So what did you do? How did you fix it?”
“I called my mentor crying, literally crying. He came over, kicked me out of bed, told me to stop being a bitch. He said if I can raise fifteen million dollars once, I can do it again. It took a while, but I was able to get more investors. I learned my lesson, hired attorneys to make sure everything that I agreed to was put in writing so if something like that ever happened again I could press charges. I was young and stupid. Mistakes were made.”
He talks about it in a tone as empty as if he was commenting on the wet, summer heat. Meanwhile, my heart is pounding with unrestrained horror at the very thought of owing 15 million dollars to anyone because my business partner stole it all and disappeared.
