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There isn’t a fatherly thing about this man.
He’s a ruthless negotiator, a nepotism trust-fund type—the last kind of person I can picture tucking in a child at night or reading bedtime stories or doing the whole tooth fairy, Easter bunny, Santa Claus thing.
Though I imagine he has paid help who do that for him.
Most people like him leave the child-rearing to the salaried, résuméd professionals.
They outsource.
I nurse my drink as I wait for his return, and I take the opportunity to check a few work emails.
Our food arrives in his absence, and for a moment I contemplate whether he made the phone call up so he could bail. You never know with people, and to be completely honest, it would be a bold but fair move.
No one should have to suffer through this a minute longer than necessary.
From the corner of my eye, I watch the couple to my right. His hand brushes hers from across the table. She reaches to catch a drip of red wine from the corner of his mouth. In the midst of it all, he can’t seem to take his eyes off her for a single second. They’re connected, entranced, infatuated with one another.
It’s been years since I’ve had that, and 99 percent of the time I don’t think twice about it. Dating . . . sex . . . relationships . . . it’s all taken a back seat these days while I focus on my career. The art-collector world is intricate, strategic, and all about who you know. Any spare time I have is spent on fostering my professional connections. I’m on an elevator to the top, and I have no plans to disembark anytime soon.
“Apologies,” Roman says when he (shockingly) returns. “It’s the first time in years that I’ve left the girls alone for more . . . they wanted to tell me good night before they went to bed.”
Nearly choking on my drink, I clear my throat. “Girls? You have daughters?”
Being a father is one thing.
But being a girl dad? Completely different ball game.
“Two,” he says. His dark eyes illuminate for the first time tonight. “Adeline’s five and Marabel’s four.”
I’ve never been one to fawn over children and babies—to be honest, sometimes they scare me. They seem so delicate, so unpredictable, so fueled with unbridled emotion. But the idea of this tall, dark, and grumpy megawatt millionaire melting over his two little girls is . . . kind of sweet.
Immediately I picture two little darlings with velvet ribbons in their hair, patent leather Mary Janes, and dimpled grins. Like two little Eloises living at the Plaza.
And their names . . . I could melt.
Straightening my shoulders and clearing my throat, I remind myself I’m on a very simple mission. No need to complicate it or get off track. Besides, he could be the best dad in the entire world to them, but it doesn’t change the way he treats other people—especially in my industry.
There’s no excuse for being a grade-A asshole.
Ever.
Biting my tongue, I swallow my curiosity away to keep from asking about his ex. Even if this were a real date, the question would be completely out of pocket.
“So what brought you all the way here from Ohio?” he asks.
“A—” I stop myself before I blurt out the word art. “All the things the city has to offer.”
I give myself an invisible pat on the back for that save.
“Right, but why Manhattan? Why not Chicago? Los Angeles? London? What brought you here?” he asks.
Bless his heart—he’s making an effort now.
Though there’s still a lack of enthusiasm in his dark-brown eyes or a hint of genuine interest in his monotone Bruce Wayne voice.
Roman slices into his filet mignon, forks it, and lifts it to his full lips. Two dimples flank his mouth as he chews, and his jaw muscles divot. There’s no denying the man is attractive. Some might even argue he’s hotter than sin. Broad shoulders, a permanent poker face, and Big Dick Energy tend to do that to a man.
Fortunately I’m not the shallow sort—and even more fortunately, I’m not here for myself.
“Came here in high school for a school trip.” I leave out the part about the trip being an Alice Calhoun High Art Club trip. “Fell in love and instantly knew it’s where I wanted to live after college.”
“Where’d you go to school?” he asks. “And what’d you study?”
Again, there’s very little interest being conveyed beyond his actual words, but since he asked, I’ll answer. Each question, each bite only brings us closer to the inevitable end of the evening.
“The Ohio State University,” I say, which is the truth. But I give him Margaux’s major. “I studied marketing with a minor in communications.”
“That’s how you ended up in product development, I take it?” He forks another bite of his steak, and I deduce he’d much rather be putting a fork in this date.
