“Sure. Do you mind if I use the bathroom?”
“Down the hallway on the left,” I tell her.
Shrimp scampi is one of my best dishes, so I get started making it. Brielle is taking a while to come back, which I assume means she’s off giving herself a tour of my place.
I take off my suit jacket and roll up the sleeves of my dress shirt. My earlier suspicions are confirmed when Brielle pops back into the kitchen.
“Is that a full gym? I wouldn’t have been surprised if you said thebuildinghad a gym, but you have one in yourapartment?”
“I like to stay active,” I say. I spend a lot of my day sitting behind a desk. I need to be able to work out whenever my schedule allows for it, which sometimes means odd hours. It’s more convenient to have everything I need close by so I don’t have to waste time going somewhere else.
Brielle rakes her gaze over my bare forearms, slowly lifting her eyes to my chest. A smirk tugs at my lips as I do nothing but watch her. Finally, after far too long to be appropriate and far too quick for my heated blood, her eyes snap to mine. A blush creeps up her neck, and she spins around, examining my place with a lot more hurry than she was examining me. Christ, she’s pretty.
I close the door on those thoughts, not willing to contemplate what her gaze on me means or why I like it so much.
When dinner is ready, I make our plates and set them on the table. “What would you like to drink?”
“Whatever you’re having is fine,” she says, her smile tentative.
I pour us each a glass of pinot gris. Based on her reaction to the wine at the restaurant, I’m hoping this will be okay. It’s considered a dry wine, but it’s on the sweeter end of the scale, and about the sweetest my palette can take.
Brielle goes in for her first bite, and I sit back and wait for her response. I know it’s good, but I’m holding my breath that she approves.
“Holy shit,” she says, then covers her mouth while she finishes the bite. “You made this?”
“You know I did. You watched me,” I say. A weight lifts, and I feel unusually proud of myself.
“Yeah, but this is good. Like really good.” Her doe eyes get even bigger, like the larger they are, the more she means it. I shouldn’t find it as adorable as I do.
I take my first bite and have to agree. I already knew I made this dish well; that’s why I chose it. But tonight, it came out even better than usual.
“One more thing I know about my fake boyfriend: he can cook.” She smiles at me, shaking her head a little like she still can’t believe it.
We eat in silence for a minute. It isn’t like she can ask or answer questions when she’s shoveling food into her mouth by the forkful.
“So, what made you get into accounting?” I ask when it seems like she’s either done or taking a break.
She seems to consider it for a moment before she answers. “Good job prospects. It’s stable,” she says. “And I’ve always been good with numbers.” It looks like she wants to say more, but she doesn’t. “What about you? Has marketing always been in your blood?”
I check that she’s done and then collect our plates and bring them to the sink. Brielle follows me to the living room, and we each settle in on opposite sides of the couch.
“I grew up around it. My father was in the industry, too. A long time ago.”
“He was in advertising before…?” She trails off her thought, folding herself onto the couch and tucking her legs beneath her.
I don’t like to talk about that time in my father’s life. His name was dragged through the mud at a time when he was at his lowest. He split from his wife, he split from his business partner, and his clientsjumped ship when he was too distracted with a messy, heated divorce to keep his business afloat. He tried to rebuild, but in the end, he put his efforts into helping me grow CreativEdge instead. His contacts and relationships are what got me off the ground in those early years.
“Yes. Seems to run in the family,” is all I say to Brielle.
She looks around my penthouse suite. The city lights shine through the large glass windows, highlighting the golden threads in her hair.
“Can I ask you a personal question?”
I don’t know where she’s going with this, if she can tell that I was holding back on my previous answer. Personal questions, personal relationships… they aren’t really my thing.
“I think it’s my turn for a question,” I say instead of turning her down.
She rolls her eyes, calling me on my avoidance without words. “Go ahead,” she says, waving her hand around her face.
