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“Oh.” I move to pour myself a mug of coffee to cover my confusion. Shoot. Maybe there was an email memo I didn’t read? I haven’t checked my phone this morning. “I really wanted to get a feel for the place. You know, for the design.”
I glance over at him, but David is silently watching me with inscrutable eyes. He gestures to the bagels. “Why don’t you help yourself and come and have a seat.”
Okay. Ominous. I don’t think I stepped on too many toes yesterday. Everyone was friendly – bar Christine – and I even had a lunch offer from one of the secretaries. He’s waiting, so I grab a bagel and my mug of coffee, rounding the breakfast bar to take a seat across from him at the small table. What’s going on? I’m so confused.
David waits for me to take my seat, getting comfortable as he taps his fingers on the side of his mug, continuing to watch me until I feel like squirming again. Finally, he speaks, sitting back in his chair, one hand still curled around the handle of his coffee mug.
“I thought it best you take some time to get to know me. That’s what Uncle Bill wants, after all. The quicker that’s out of the way, the quicker you can get started on your design. In the office if you like, so you can get a feel for the place then.”
And the quicker you’ll be out of my home. He doesn’t say that, but I can read between the lines. I’m not sure what I’ve done to offend him. Exist, probably. I’m not sure he’s thought this out. I don’t think I can get a feel for his entire personality in one day, even if we hole up in his condo the whole time.
“That’s not quite how it works,” I remind him softly, but he cocks an arrogant eyebrow at me. Sighing, I try to explain what I mean. “I can’t get to know your personality in one day by interviewing you.”
He shrugs at me, his face blank. “Sure you can.”
What? No, I can’t. David flicks his wrist toward the hallway to the rest of the condo. “Fetch your iPad and we’ll run through everything there is to know about me.”
Yeah, this is probably going to be a waste of time. Nevertheless, I go and “fetch” my iPad, as he requests. Settling myself down at the table, David talks nonstop for the next few hours.
I diligently take notes as he gives me all the generic details of his upbringing in Chicago. The schools he attended, the grades he achieved, the extracurricular activities he participated in, his parents’ and brother’s names. The name of his brother’s wife. How they met at Mr. Westerhaven’s Manor in the English countryside last Christmas.
Where he studied at college, what he studied, his grades there, and when he moved to New York. The names of the charities he supports, both publicly and anonymously. The changes that he has implemented during his tenure at Haven Property. Everything.
What he doesn’t tell me is one single personal factoid. Not one personal anecdote. Not one single thing that tells me anything about who David Brooks Westerhaven is as a person. Like I said, a complete waste of time.
Finally, he falls silent, watching me as I finish my diligent notetaking. I tap my fingers on the table, waiting to see if he’s going to say anything else. He doesn’t, looking at me expectantly. Like he thinks I’m going to thank him and tell him I’ll run along and draft the whole design now.
“Oh, is it my turn now?” I raise an eyebrow and tip my head to the side. David blinks at me with a blank face.
“I don’t need to know anything aboutyou.”
And I’m not telling him shit. That’s my business. I tap my fingers against the side of my iPad again. It’s a nervous tic. I am about to tell a billionaire where to shove his shit. I’m allowed to be nervous.
“No.” I shake my head slightly, barely managing to keep the irritation out of my voice. “Is it my turn to ask questions that might actually tell me anything about you at all?”
He doesn’t like that question one bit. I can tell from the way he scowls at me.
“I just told you everything about me.” He is clearly irritated. Well, that makes two of us.
“Yes, and I could write a perfectly factual biography for a newspaper column,” I shoot back, my voice dripping with condescension. “But, I couldn’t tell you one thing about your personality.”
We lock eyes and I can see, not dislike, but annoyance in his. Finally, he huffs out a breath, waving his hand dismissively at me.
“Fine. Ask away.”
I bite back a smirk. I have a feeling that actually getting to know David Brooks Westerhaven is going to be like drawing water from a stone. I’ll start easy.
“What’s your favorite color?”
He looks at me like I’ve sprouted an extra head. “I don’t have one.”
I roll my eyes at him. Seriously? “Everyone has a favorite color. How could you not?”
“Because I’m not five,” he snorts, lounging back in his chair, his legs crossed at the ankles, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. He looks young, rich and oh soarrogant. He probably thinks I’m taking notes on my iPad, but I’m actually sketching him. Giving him devil’s horns, a tail and fangs. Not particularly mature, but it’s stopping me from losing my cool, and probably my job by extension.
“Fine then. What color are the socks you usually wear?”
“Black.”
