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I felt bad about the things I’d said to Clara, and even worse about the things I’d thought. But I was glad that I felt bad. Feelings of remorse meant I still knew right from wrong and was capable of normal human emotions. It meant I’d made it through another day without doing what the world expected me to do: turn into my morally bankrupt father.
I’d learned long ago that the key to maintaining my integrity was vigilance. Whenever I caught myself being selfish or thoughtless or obnoxious, I made a point of nipping my behavior in the bud, rooting it out before it had a chance to blossom into a gigantic asshole tree. I wasn’t sure if anything I’d said or done around Clara so far qualified as selfish, but plenty qualified as thoughtless and obnoxious. Which meant it was high time for some bud-nipping.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Clara closed her eyes for a moment, which was more than a little scary since she was driving down I-95 at about sixty miles an hour. But thankfully, she opened them again almost immediately.
“You don’t have to apologize,” she said, keeping her focus on the road. “I’m not sure why I thought you knew I was an ornithologist. This morning is still kind of hazy to me. But you’re right. I asked you if we had sex, I thanked you for not calling the police, and I accepted your money. If I were you, I’m pretty sure I would have thought I was a hooker, too.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Even if you really were a prostitute, it’s no excuse for me being so obnoxious. I sat here talking about respecting your choices, and then treated you like crap because of the choices I thought you made. I don’t have the right to treat anyone that way. I don’t know what’s wrong with me sometimes.”
She glanced over at me. “There’s nothing wrong with you,” she said. “If you want to know the truth, before the little blowup at the gas station, you were starting to grow on me. You actually seem like a pretty good guy.” As a small smile crossed her face, she lowered her voice to a whisper. “You didn’t hear this from me, but you’re fun to talk to.”
For a split second, I thought she was just kissing my ass, trying to stroke my ego with false flattery the way most people do when they meet me. But then I remembered that she had no idea who I was. Which meant she had just given me a genuine compliment. The “good guy” who was “fun to talk to” and “kind of growing” on her wasn’t the son and only heir of billionaire Daniel Dunning. It was me. Myself. Plain old average non-billionaire Ian Dundunfordsomer.
Something suddenly occurred to me. What if I wanted to contact her again after this ridiculous fiasco was over? What if I wanted to invite her out for a bite to eat, and just talk and hang out and enjoy her company? How would I explain the fake last name? If I couldn’t be trusted with information as basic as my own damned name, how could she ever believe anything else I said?
Shit. Now that she was not only not a hooker, but an Ivy League doctoral candidate, did I actively want Clara to like me? And trust me? And want to get together with me after this road trip was over?
And was I imagining it, or was she blushing?
CHAPTER 13
Clara
Was I imagining it, or was I flirting with Ian?
Guys had been hitting on me since I was fourteen, so getting male attention had never exactly been what you’d call a struggle. Which meant flirting was not my thing; I just sat back and let the guys do all the work.
But Ian’s only interest in me was as a temporary chauffeur. So I supposed me bluntly telling him that he was growing on me and that he was a good guy was my pathetic attempt to spark his interest while he was my captive audience.
I could feel a flush rising to my cheeks. If I was flirting, I was failing miserably at it.Don’t tell anyone I said this, but you’re fun to talk to.Not exactly a top-ten pickup line.
“So do you drive to work or take the commuter train?” I said, trying to undo my flirt by talking about something banal.
“I work from home,” he said.
“Really?” I said with genuine surprise. Him spending his days all alone in that remote little house seemed like a waste of a good personality. “So you’re some kind of a hermit?”
He shrugged. “I guess.”
“Do you mind if I ask why?”
“I’m self-employed,” he said. “I can do everything I need to do from home, so I don’t really have any reason to leave.”
My curiosity was aroused. “What is it you do?”
“Promise not to yawn?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“Please don’t,” he said. “The way our luck’s been going today, if you cross your heart and hope to die, we’ll get hit by a meteor.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. He really was quite funny. “Then I just promise not to yawn.”
“Okay,” he said. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Tell me already.”
