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“I don’t even like Coke. I’m a Sprite and ice tea drinker.” He doesn’t look impressed by my brilliant joke. “Wow. Tough crowd.”
He shrugs. “You’re going to have to get used to that if we work together.”
“We’ll be working together?”
“So to speak.”
“Then you’re going to have to get used to showing appreciation for my comedic brilliance.”
“Lord.”
The way he says it makes me burst out laughing, and this time it’s real laughter. He looks genuinely frazzled at the thought.
“I’m going to want you to be my trustee for that look on your face alone!” I splutter through my laughter.
“And that’s exactly why you need me to teach you a few things. So you don’t make decisions based on things like the look on my face.”
My eyes glide over to him. “It’s such a nice face, though.”
“Yes.”
I guffaw. “Wow, arrogant, much?”
“Yes, but also not stupid. It’s a face. I didn’t do anything to get this face. It is what it is.”
“It probably helps with the ladies.” It comes out sounding more like an accusation than a compliment. And maybe I meant it that way.
“I wouldn’t know.”
I realize then that I have no idea if he’s married, has a girlfriend, or a cadre of women at his beck and call, or even men or what. I don’t recall any pictures on his wall that made me think he was linked to someone, but these days, who the hell knows. I also would hope that he wouldn’t be bringing a drunken woman home and letting her grind in his lap if he was with someone. But again, who the hell knows.
“What’s your wife going to think about this? Shouldn’t you ask her first?”
His tongue digs into his left cheek, his eyes dancing with the first flash of amusement I’ve seen all night. “Are you asking if I’m married?”
“Well, you’re forty-one years old. Have a nice face that you take no responsibility for. You’re tall, well dressed. Intelligent, if a tad grumpy. You have more money than King Midas. I think it would be a safe assumption that some woman snared you in her net.”
“Good point.”
That’s it? That’s his entire fucking response? He is so fucking infuriating, I’m surprised my heart hasn’t burst from the spikes of high blood pressure he’s given me.
“So, are you going to answer my question?”
He pushes off the bedpost and walks back over to the lounge, sits down, then rests his ankle on his knee. “No, I don’t knowwhat my wife would think about this. But no, I don’t need to ask her first.”
My heart sinks.
That’s not the answer I’d wanted him to give.
“Because she doesn’t exist,” he finally adds, his eyes locked on mine, watching for my response.
“Then why the fuck didn’t you just say that?” I shout, half-embarrassed that he can read me like an open book, but half-relieved that was his answer.
“You told me to answer your question. Your question was ‘What would your wife think about this?’”
“You knew what I meant.”
“I went by what you said. That’s what I do. Say what you mean, and this is all going to be much simpler than hoping I’m going to decipher your cryptic messages. I don’t have the time nor the inclination for that, Luna. I am really busy, and I don’t play games. I could, but you’d lose every single time.”
