“Maybe not, but many people can work their way up to running any company. Or start their own. And who knows, possibly one day a long-lost relative will leave you money.”
I don’t think that is a concern for me. My mother’s life savings consists of what is in her prison spending account. There’s one family member with a bank account big enough to make my money dreams come true, but my father won’t leave me a dime.
When it comes to people with shoulders to lean on, there’s Drew. It’s not a topic I want to discuss with Grant though. He’s dressed in a dark pair of jeans and a simple light blue t-shirt under his Columbia jacket, but I guarantee his outfit costs more than the thrift store finds I have on. He’s not the person I want the “pull yourself up by your bootstraps” pep talk from right now.
“What is it you do in your fancy board room, anyway?” I ask to steer the topic away from where we were headed. Notice he doesn’t fight me on the board room being fancy.
“Moore Investments has many different arms, but our biggest division is point of sale payment terminals.”
Grant stops like I’m supposed to understand the meaning of what he said. “And that is?”
“Oh.” Grant thinks about how to answer the question. “The little black boxes you swipe your credit card on when you check out.”
“The credit card machines?” Why couldn’t he just call them that? I don’t need it kindergarten simple.
“Yes. We process the transactions and make many forms of the readers as well. There’s a large manufacturer of them right here in San Francisco, but most of our work is done in China.”
“Why are they always broken?” Half the time when you check out the machine is either broken or the screen doesn’t work properly. Who designed those stupid pens?
Grant’s forehead pinches together, lines forming right in the middle. “They’re plastic and process thousands of transactions a day. That much use and it’s bound to happen.”
I shrug. “I just think if they worked more often you’d be able to take people’s money faster.”
Grant rolls his eyes. “I’m not stealing people’s money. They are paying for goods purchased. It’s not highway robbery.”
“Have you seen the price of milk in this town? It is highway robbery.”
Rather than be offended, he laughs. “Believe it or not, Clare, I’m only in charge of processing transactions. I don’t control the costs of food.”
I want to make a witty comment, but the only thought I have is a snotty, “you should,” which is more childish than I’m willing to stoop to. Thankfully, Samantha picks that moment to deliver our pizza, saving me from an answer.
We eat in a comfortable silence until Grant ruins it with his big mouth.
“This is nice, right?”
I answer with a head nod hoping he’ll take the hint and go back to eating. Eventually he’ll do the polite thing and ask more about my family. When you’re rich, it’s a good thing. It gives people the chance to brag about their family members’ achievements and how much money they made on the stock market yesterday. Accomplishments I’m sure they find exciting.
When you’re me the only bragging available is the fact your mother didn’t do any time in solitary confinement this month. It’s missing the same pizzazz.
“You. Me. This pizza. It’s nice.”
I smile while chewing, anything to get me out of agreeing. The truth is, itisnice. Well, it was until he started talking.
Another minute passes with Grant watching me chew and I lose my mind in the questions.
Why is he being nice to me?
Is it pity?
Or hope?
Maybe Grant wants to try and get another night of sex out of me. I can’t imagine he has a hard time getting sex from the ladies, but this pizza is cheaper than what his normal dates require.
“Why am I here?”
He doesn’t spout out a platitude, but instead stops chewing and appears to think of his answer. Finally, after keeping me in suspense for at least thirty seconds Grant simply shrugs.
“That’s it? You don’t know?”
