“Thank you,” I said quietly. “That’s very kind.”
“Is there anything else?” He was looking at me like he was ready to solve whatever problems I threw at him.
I thought about Abby, sick on our couch with bronchitis she’d tried to work through because she couldn’t afford not to.
“Actually, yes. Is it possible to add a non-family member to my benefits plan?”
“Talk to Norma,” Dane said quickly like he didn’t want to hear about my personal life.
Was he serious or were we talking hypotheticals?
“Okay,” I said with a slow nod. “Are we negotiating or are you just granting wishes now? Can I have a pony?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Do you want a pony?”
“I live in a fifth-floor walkup. Where would I keep it?”
“You could ask for a house with stables.”
I honestly didn’t know if he was joking. He was impossible to puzzle out.
We stared at each other for a moment, and I realized this was the longest conversation we’d ever had. The most words we’d exchanged that weren’t directly related to his schedule or his meetings or whether he wanted his calls held.
Dane leaned back in his seat. “I don’t want you to do this if you’re not comfortable with it. It’s asking a lot. More than should be expected of anyone, let alone my assistant.”
“Executive assistant,” I corrected automatically.
His lips twitched again. “Executive assistant. The point stands. This is a lot to ask.”
I slid off my chair and onto the edge of the conference table, crossing my legs and trying to project more confidence than I felt. It was a move I’d seen on TV when the powerful lady lawyer gets all domineering and confident. “Can I ask you something?”
He nodded warily. “You can but I can’t promise I’ll answer.”
“Why did you accept the Most Eligible Bachelor title if you’re such a recluse?”
“I’m not a recluse,” he said immediately, looking genuinely offended. “I just don’t like people.”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed. “That’s literally what a recluse is.”
“No, a recluse actively avoids society. I participate in society. I just don’t enjoy it very much.” He crossed his arms. “There’s a difference.”
“If you say so.” I swung my legs slightly, settling into the conversation. “But it’s funny, you know? Your entire company is based on people finding people they like. And you’re sitting here telling me you don’t like people.”
“Love,” he corrected sharply. “The company is based on people finding people they love. And that’s different.”
“Is it?”
I found myself genuinely curious about his answer. I wanted to know what Dane Kavanagh—brilliant businessman, grumpy CEO, secret Irish accent haver—actually thought about love. And life in general. Did he ever watch TV? Had he seen even one episode of Breaking Bad?
Did he use chopsticks when he ate sushi or did he power through it with a fork? Was he a cat person, a dog person, or the ever elusive bird person? My neighbors back in Wyoming had a couple gray parrots, and they were fun to talk to, even though their birds wouldn’t talk to me. Jerks.
Did he sing while he was driving alone in his car? Did he even drive?
I wanted to knowhim, not just his schedule.
“Every relationship is a transaction,” Dane said finally, his voice matter of fact. “That’s what I built Cupid’s Arrow around. It’s what our algorithm is based on. Give and take. You provide something I need, I provide something you need. When both parties benefit, the relationship works. When the balance tips too far in one direction, it fails.”
“So love isn’t actually part of the equation?”
