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“You really don’t think you’ll ever marry?”
He shook his head. “It’s not just a headline.” And a much-labored interview topic. “My parents were happy together. It’s not some deeply ingrained fear of failure. I’m not sure anyone of means needs the permanence of marriage anymore. It’s something we’re conditioned to want.”
“A habit?”
“A status symbol. Has some merit where it comes to having children, but I don’t see myself as a parent.”
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“Did you really have a vasectomy?” Another well-publicized fact about him and since he went there, she was only following up for accuracy’s sake.
“I’ve had the snip. No regrets.”
“You don’t believe in love?”
“Of course I do.” He leaned forward as if to impress that upon her, as if to say I’m not a barbarian. “I’ve been well-loved and there are people in my life I love dearly. I don’t believe in lasting romantic love and I don’t want kids.”
She couldn’t help herself but prod him. “You’ve never been in love?”
“More like deeply infatuated. I’m deeply infatuated often. I’m a serial infatuate.”
“Is that a real word?”
He nodded and looked away as if he’d been caught out doing something naughty. “It most certainly is.”
“But you’re not infatuated right now.” That he didn’t have a current girlfriend was mind-blowing. Or a lie.
His eyes found hers. Mischief dialed up to pulse-jumping. “I might be working on something.”
That sounded right. Lucky girl. “I’m happy for you. I don’t want to watch you on a talk show one day and think, poor Haydn, he’s suffering from an infatuation deficiency. I can see it in his eyes.”
With an exaggerated eyelash bat, he said, “What else can you see in my eyes?”
“Jet lag?”
“No dice. Melatonin and I’ve had a nap.”
She smiled at her hands, twisted up in her lap. Everything he was doing was working on her. “I have to admit that you, this, us, the way you look at me, the way you make me feel, makes it difficult to concentrate. I haven’t had sex for a long while and no, I’m not telling you how long, and in my wildest dreams I never expected this. You’re a lot to take in.” She met his eyes. “And I haven’t even seen forearms yet.”
“Hmm, I see.” Said with a serious expression, brows angled down and fingers steepled. “Can you concentrate enough to tell me how you’d like to proceed?”
“In, um, the usual manner.” Not that there was anything usual about this one-night stand.
“You mean a little awkwardly since we’re sober, or do you want more champagne?”
“You think sex is awkward?” Fascinating.
“I think a lot of things are awkward if you don’t agree on expectations. What are your desires here?”
She groaned. “You’re going to make me talk about having sex.” If she saw forearms she might start babbling, but otherwise any other topic would be easier to deal with. She could go on about her balance sheet, her debt to equity ratio for hours.
“I’m impossibly cruel.”
“I’d like it with, um, a bed. And protection. Do you have protection?”
“Naturally. A bed and a rubber are your high point. That’s like accepting an unsolicited dick pic as foreplay. Teela, even your mother would be ashamed of you.”
She laughed. “Aren’t you supposed to just masterfully make me come and put me in a sex coma?” What was the point in being a Hollywood legend otherwise.
