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“Fine,” he said. “I’m a software developer.”
I didn’t yawn. I was actually quite impressed. His waterfront property suggested he made good money, so I’d assumed he had a job that required brains. But he was also a little dopey. Not unintelligent, mind you, just one of those book smart, life stupid types. The kind who can do calculus in his head and then turn around and lock his keys (and phone and wallet) in his car. Software development—or any job that required logic and critical thinking—was the last thing I would have imagined he did.
“You’re serious?” I said.
“Let me guess,” he said. “You never would have guessed that I did something that requires me to be logical.”
“You’ve had this conversation with people before?”
“Many times,” he said. “Evidently I come off as fairly intelligent on a technical basis but kind of an airhead on a practical one.”
“That’s not what I was thinking at all,” I said, even though that was exactly what I’d been thinking. “It’s the way you’re dressed that was throwing me off. Button-down shirt. Dress shoes. I just assumed you had a boring office job.”
“No,” he said. “My work’s pretty interesting. And I haven’t stepped foot into an office in over five years. Most days in the summer, I don’t even bother putting on a shirt. I just sit in front of my computer in a pair of jeans and my bare feet. The only reason I got dressed up last night was because I was supposed to meet my father at some fancy new restaurant. But then he had to work late so we just met at the bar.”
I suddenly pictured him sitting in a swivel chair in nothing but a pair of jeans on a hot summer day. Maybe sweating just a little, and taking an ice cube out of his drink and rubbing it down his neck and chest to cool himself down. And then standing up and inserting one thumb under the button of his jeans before pushing his cowboy hat down over his eyes.
Oh my God. I really needed to stop browsing my mother’s bookshelves.
“Lucky you,” I said. “If you’d gone to the restaurant, you would have ended up driving home in your own air-conditioned car and then gone to sleep at a reasonable hour. And worst of all, you’d be safe and sound in your own house right now enjoying a well-earned Saturday morning off. You’re welcome, by the way.”
Goddammit. I was flirting again. But either he didn’t realize I was flirting, or he realized it and didn’t mind, because he was laughing.
“Believe it or not,” he said, “I’m kind of enjoying your company, too. Trust me, this is the most interesting Saturday morning I’ve had in eight months.”
“Eight months?” I repeated. “Intriguingly specific. Dare I ask?”
“I don’t recommend it.”
“Okay, now you have to tell me. What happened eight months ago that could possibly be more interesting than spending the morning with me in my 1999 Cougar?”
He raised an eyebrow. “How much time do you have?”
CHAPTER 14
Ian
I didn’t want to tell Clara about Greta.
But then again, I desperately wanted to tell her about Greta. After keeping my feelings to myself for eight months, I wanted to share my heartache with someone who could be trusted not to sell my sob story to the press. But I couldn’t tell Clara the full story of my hellish breakup without mentioning my father’s money, and the minute she found out who my father was, it was goodbye, Blank Slate, and hello, Mr. Bazillionaire. So I had to be careful with my words. I had to give her the story without divulging all the details—to be honest with her without giving her monetary facts that might overwhelm her moral compass.
“I was engaged,” I began carefully. “The short story is that eight months ago I asked for a prenup. When I woke up the next morning, she was gone.”
Clara’s face was expressionless, her unblinking eyes on the road. I wasn’t sure what to make of her sudden silence, but my gut said she thought I got what I deserved for asking the woman I loved for a prenup. Of course, if she knew all the dirty details, she’d know that asking for that prenup had saved me from a loveless marriage and, eventually, a very costly divorce.
“You’re very quiet,” I said. “Did I say something offens—”
“Was it worth it?” she interrupted.
“Was what worth it?”
“Asking her to sign a prenup? Was it worth losing the woman you loved over?”
“I regretted it at first,” I said. “But eventually, yeah, I realized it was worth it. A few months after she left me, she was engaged again. To someone with more money.” I very deliberately avoided the word “wealth.”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean she was a gold digger,” she said, her tone more hurt than angry.
“What else would it mean?” I said.
