“Yes, I guess,” I say. “I don’t know his entire catalogue or anything, but I put a couple of his songs on my cleaning playlist.”
“You have a playlist for cleaning?”
“You don’t?”
“No, I don’t,” he deadpans.
“You don’t what? Listen to Kelvin McCoy or clean?” I narrow my eyes. “You don’t clean, do you? Your house is probably filthy. That’s why you took me to a hotel.”
His jaw falls open in faux-surprise, and it makes me laugh.
“First of all, my house is immaculate, thank you very much,” hesays, a chuckle in his tone. “That might be because I pay a very nice woman to come do it, but it’s clean nonetheless.”
“I bet she listens to Kelvin McCoy,” I tease.
He scoots to the edge of his chair, his eyes sparkling. He rests his forearms on the table. I can’t help but notice the way the veins rope around his tanned skin and beneath the heavy watch sitting around one of his wrists.
I say a silent prayer in gratitude that he isn’t an attorney that I have to go up against because staying focused—even for me—would be extremely hard.
He makes a fist and twists his forearm. The muscles flex as he moves it side to side. He clears his throat. I look up.
“Your watch is nice,” I say, picking up my napkin and dabbing the corner of my mouth. It’s a total attempt at distraction … that does not work.
He grins. “It is, isn’t it?”
I nod, setting the napkin back on my lap.
“I bet Kelvin McCoy doesn’t have one like this,” he says.
“Probably not. His music makes me think he’d have something more … leathery.”
Holt’s laughter is loud. “Leather? That’s too badass for him.”
“So you aren’t a fan. I see the truth now.”
“Eh, he’s okay. Kind of a pussy but he’s all right.” He stretches his legs out in front of him. “Maybe Kelvin will come to Chicago, and you can check out his watch. See what you think in person.”
I frown. “I’ll never get to see him live.”
“Why not?”
“I spend all my days and most of my nights in the office.” I sigh. “It’s impossible to find time to do anything else. And it’s been so long since I did that it feels … overwhelming. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
“Ticketmaster?” he offers.
I laugh. “That’s not what I mean. I mean finding people to hang out with. You don’t go to concerts and things alone.”
“You don’t have one friend to do things with?”
“I have an assistant …”
Holt laughs as Lola sets our plates in front of us. I thank her, and thankfully, she gets the hint and goes away.
“An assistant is someone you pay,” he says, dragging his plate in front of him.
“Maybe I pay her to be my friend.”
He looks at me like I’m crazy. “You have no social life? None at all?”
