“Then you know this train is rolling down the tracks now. The campaign, the dates, all of it. We might as well start now.” He paused. “Unless you’re uncomfortable with that.”
“No, it’s not that,” I said. “It’s just a little last minute. What if I’m in the tub?”
He paused and cleared his throat. “Are you in the tub?”
“No, I can be ready. I was just saying.” I was already scrambling off the couch.
“Text me your address,” he said. “The car will be there in twenty minutes.”
He hung up before I could respond.
I stared at my phone for approximately three seconds before launching into panic mode.
Twenty minutes. I had twenty minutes to transform from comfortable couch potato into someone who looked like she was casually going on a date with one of New York’s most eligible bachelors.
I flew to my room and tore through my closet. What did one wear to a fake first date? Something nice but not too nice? Casual but not too casual? Good bra and panties?
I settled on dark jeans, a black sweater, and a mismatched set of mildly sexy underwear. That way, it looked nice but not like I was planning on putting out tonight. Nothing was going to happen, of course, but it was better to have cute underwear and not need it, than need cute underwear and not have it. I quickly scanned my shoe offerings and went for black ankle booties.
No time for a full face of makeup. I swiped on some mascara and lip gloss, then stared at my wet hair in despair.
It was already curling into unruly waves as it air-dried. I tried to tame it with my fingers, gave up, and grabbed a wool coat and a knit hat to cover the disaster.
I grabbed my purse, double-checked that I had my phone and wallet, and hurried out the door and down five flights of stairs.
A black sedan was waiting outside, looking like something Dane would send. Or it could be some mob guys. I wasn’t about to jump into it until I had scouted it out. The driver got out when I timidly approached. He wore a dark suit and looked like he moonlighted as a Secret Service agent. “Miss Lavin?”
“What’s the password?” I asked.
He frowned in confusion. “Mr. Kavanagh didn’t give me a password.”
I smiled at him. “That’s the right answer. Should I sit in the front or the back?”
“The back will be more comfortable, ma’am.”
I wasn’t loving getting called ma’am like I was my mother, but he was trying to be polite, so I slid into the backseat without commenting on it. He pulled smoothly into traffic, and I tried to make small talk.
“So, uh, have you been driving for Mr. Kavanagh long?”
“Yes.”
“That’s nice. Do you enjoy it? Is he a good boss?”
His expression never changed. “It’s a job.”
“Right. Sure.”
“The conditions of my employment are more than adequate,” he said, like that clarified things.
I tried again. “The weather’s been crazy lately, hasn’t it?”
“Cold out there. Yes, ma’am.”
No wonder he wanted me in the backseat. It wasn’t for my comfort. It was for his.
This man was clearly not interested in conversation, which was probably for the best because I was too nervous to think of anything more interesting in terms of small talk. Everything on my mind tonight was big talk, not fitting for this situation.
So, have you ever been summoned to dinner by a billionaire late at night? No? Just me?
