I shake my head and straighten up on the stool. “I’m in accounting.”
“Aren’t you a savant of sorts? Like my brother, Emerson, the mighty CFO?”
I hesitate, “No.”
He inches closer to me, “Liar.”
I lift one shoulder, “I’m good with numbers. So are millions of other people.”
He studies me, just staring. Is he even blinking? This is making me feel twitchy. I’m not used to him being…attentive. Normally he’s busy making jokes, working a room, smiling and schmoozing.
“You’re leaving a good bit out,” he finally says. “More than a bit.”
“And you? What’s got a billionaire playboy almost running to the nearest liquor source?”
“I’ll need more of said source before we get into that.” He takes another big sip of scotch. “Why Juniper Falls?”
“My grandmother.”
He turns his body to face me, concerned. “She ill?” I nod. “I’m sorry.” Another sip. “And?”
“And what?”
“And you couldn’t work remotely at any of one of the fancy New York firms that would love to have you? Why are you slumming it at a mayo company?”
“You meanyourgrowing condiments empire?” I smirk. He laughs. It’s a big, free sound I’ve heard many times from afar. Still, I like hearing it now up close, especially when he clearly needs it. He’s acting normal but I can see the fatigue around his eyes, stress in his brow, defeat in his slumped shoulders. I realize he’s staring again, waiting for my answer. I lift my glass. “Need more of said source.”
“Then let’s bloody get some! Shots, barkeep!”
Benedict motions to some expensive liquor with two fingers. The bartender doesn’t even hide his surprise at the pricey order, which is saying something in Las Vegas. I’m about to ask what we’re drinking but the Man Made of Money inches closer to me.
“Now, let’s play twenty either-or questions and we drink every time we answer differently, yeah?”
“What!” I squeak, “No. I’ll be wasted in thirty seconds!”
He rolls his eyes, “Firstly, have some faith, woman. We both have impeccable taste. Second, I’ve ordered you another minty thing. We take a sip, not a shot.”
“Then what are the shots for?”
“To loosen you up. Come on!” he says, lifting his tiny glass. I groan but follow his lead, throwing back the fruity yet smooth alcohol. It definitely has a bite to it, but no burn. Interesting.
“Right. Beach or Mountains on the count of three. One, two, three…”
“Beach,” we both say.
He lifts an eyebrow. “See? Your turn.”
“Okay, uh, sweet or salty? One, two, three,”
“Sweet,” we both say again.
“I’ve a good one,” he says. “Movies or books? One, two, three, Movies.”
“Books,” I say. But he smiles wide, knowingly. So I add, “You just wanted us to drink.”
“Guilty,” he says into his beer. “Come, think of a good one now.”
I think for a beat, “Pancakes or waffles?”
