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Am I being ridiculous? It's just dinner. And I am very hungry—to the point where I would have to stop off and grab something to eat before trying to make it home. “Fine. If you're willing to have dinner, I guess I could eat, too.”
“Very big of you.”
He is such a dick. I have to bite my tongue to keep my thoughts to myself. It's safer to turn my attention back to the press release. I'll have Sarah look it over for me, since we always act as the other’s second pair of eyes when it comes to things like this. I would never go public with a release without letting her pick it apart first.
As it is, it looks pretty good. We've discussed the idea of starting a charity or a fund to highlight Sawyer's commitment to the community at large, and I think I've landed on something in his wheelhouse.
After a conversation with someone working downstairs, Sawyer hangs up the phone wearing what looks like a satisfied table grin. “What's up?”
“We came in at ninety percent capacity tonight.” He turns away quickly, looking out the window, but not fast enough to conceal the gratified smile that lights up his face. He wants to hide it from me, but I'm watching him too closely.
You shouldn't watch him like that. I really wish that voice in my head would shut up sometimes. It's my job to watch him closely, to read his moods, to anticipate his stupid, reckless ideas.
Sure. Keep telling yourself that.
“I'm happy to hear it,” I murmur, studying him, observing the way his hands tighten into fists once they're deep in the pockets of his khakis. The way his broad shoulders rise and fall when he sighs. He is much more emotionally attached to the outcome of this situation than he ever meant to let on. He wants so badly to right the wrongs he unwittingly committed.
Dear God. I am actually defending him to myself. Sawyer fucking Cargill, the devil incarnate.
It's even worse than that. I'm not only defending him. I am sympathizing with him.
“I have big plans for this place,” he admits, still facing the harbor. “I can see it all in my head. Making it bigger and better than anything my father ever imagined. I'm not talking about some sprawling monolith, either.”
“So you mean what you say about wanting the club to be the heart of the town?”
“I don't necessarily think of it in those terms—but yes. In a way. I want this club to be what immediately comes to mind when someone is planning an event. I want happy memories to be made here—not only private dinners and drinks after sailing, but something people remember for years to come.”
And here I sit, waiting for the punchline. Expecting him to say something awful, or selfish, or egotistical.
No such thing happens. I don't know if I'm surprised or secretly glad. “I commend you for that.”
“I didn't say it to be commended.”
“Can you take a compliment when it's offered? I swear, that's the exact sort of thing you got on my case for, a couple of days ago.”
“And there I was, thinking you forgot all about Friday's events.”
Whoops. There it is. The exact sort of ignorant, egotistical statement I was expecting. He would have to throw that in my face, wouldn't he? I'm not going to give him the satisfaction of playing into his hand.
Besides, our dinner has arrived.
“So, what do you do in your free time?” he asks while slicing into a succulent filet whose aroma sort of makes me wish I'd ordered that, instead. He likes it medium rare, too, which is exactly how I always order my beef. It's a shame we're not friendly, or I would ask for a bite.
“Free time? What's that?”
“Same here,” he agrees with a sigh. “There are people who treat work like work, and then there are those of us who can't draw the line between work and life. This club is my life.”
It takes a second for me to understand he's being sincere. And for some reason, I feel sorry for him. “You're too young to lock yourself away in a yacht club for the rest of your life.”
“And how is the view from up on your high horse?” he counters, but not without humor. “You know what I mean. My work weaves itself into my life. If I'm socializing, it's here. Having drinks at the club. Eating dinner?”
The pointed look he gives his plate makes me laugh. “Gotcha.”
“Don't tell me you're not the same way.”
“I am. I won't argue with you. The only thing I've taken to bed in as long as I can remember is my computer.”
Wow. Where the hell did that come from? Like he needs to know anything about my private life and the fact that I haven't gotten laid in far too long.
