I nod.
“Speaking of which,” she continues. “Do you always travel with an entourage, or is tonight special?”
“Security comes with the territory.” I lean back against the seat. “When you become successful enough, you start making enemies.”
“Enemies?” She tilts her head. “What kind of biotech work makes enemies?”
“The profitable kind,” I quip.
She laughs. It’s real, not the polite titter women use at galas when wealthy men like me make bad jokes. “That’s so... vague.”
“I contain multitudes,” I reply.
“Of vagueness?”
“Of mystery.” I’m grinning now, which is not something I do often. “Keeps things interesting.”
“Interesting,” she repeats, like she’s testing the word. “Is that what we’re calling this?”
“What wouldyoucall it?” I counter.
She considers this, staring out at the Brooklyn streets sliding past. We’re crossing the bridge now, and Manhattan’s lights are reflected on East River. “Statistically improbable?”
I give her an uncertain expression. “How so?”
“Well, let’s see.” She starts counting on her fingers. “I wander into the wrong room looking for a bathroom. Meet a stranger. Trigger his security system. Get rescued by said stranger’s actual security team. And now I’m in his mysteriously fancy car being driven home by mysterious professionals while he sits here making terrible jokes about containing multitudes.”
I shake my head. “That was agoodjoke.”
“It was a Walt Whitman reference. That’s not the same thing as a good joke.”
“You recognized the reference. That makes you either well-read or a formerEnglish major.”
“Communications, actually. But I did minor in destroying my own professional prospects.”
There’s an edge to her voice when she says it. Something raw underneath the humor.
I should probably leave it alone. But I find myself asking anyway. “How so?”
“Let’s just say, I trusted the wrong people and spend two years paying for it.” She shakes her head. “But that’s a terrible second-date story, let alone a first-car-ride story.”
“Seconddate?” I raise an eyebrow. “Presumptuous.”
“Oh please.” She turns to face me fully now, and Christ, she’s pretty when she’s challenging me. “You’re giving me a ride home at night. Quoting Whitman. Feels like a date to me. Maybe not a second date, admittedly.”
“You don’t know anything about me,” I reply.
“I know you’re rich enough to have bodyguards and self-aware enough to be embarrassed about it.” She’s still holding my gaze. “I know you spent your Friday night at a charity gala looking like you’d rather be anywhere else. I know you have scars you don’t try to hide and you drink expensive whiskey when you’re bored.”
“That’s a lot of information from one conversation,” I manage.
“I’m observant.” She half smiles.
I shake my head. “Clearly.”
“So what do you know aboutme?” she asks.
Everything. Nothing. Too much and not nearly enough.
