“Of course you are.”
He popped the licorice into his own mouth instead, chewing slowly as he let his eyes drag over me. Was he flirting? If so, he was doing it with bare-minimum effort. Just a raised brow and the lazy tilt of his head. Meanwhile, I was over here wondering if I passed.
Flirting at the country club never required effort. Everyone already knew everyone else’s financial status, and you just drifted toward the ones closest to your income bracket. So much could be overlooked, including attraction, when money was the primary aphrodisiac.
“Why would your parents force you to date a dweeb?” he asked.
“Because Donald is the heir to an ice cream fortune.”
His brows lifted. “Your mom and dad must really love Rocky Road.”
I made a face. “Is that another joke?”
“Not if you have to ask,” he said, the hint of a smile.
I let my gaze linger on him a second too long. He caught it,but didn’t cash in. I wasn’t used to boys like him, ones whose self-worth wasn’t tied to the size of their trust fund.
“It’s the money my parents like about him,” I admitted, “not the ice cream.”
“Hmm. Sounds like your future husband can have his pick of mouthy debutantes. So, tell me, Gold Coast, what doyoubring to the table?”
“Me?” I laughed, not accustomed to having to explain myself. In the circles I ran in, my last name said it all. “Are you questioning my worth?”
“He’s a prince. Unless you’re the queen…” He let the implication linger.
“My family owns a worldwide hotel chainanda hefty stake in an oil fortune. That’s what I bring to the table. Make no mistake—Prince needsme. Not the other way around,” I said, angling my chin to emphasize my importance even as I could hear with my own ears how pretentious that made me sound.
Iron Maiden nodded slowly while continuing to chew the licorice. It was then that I realized how out of my element I was. Wealth was a marker in my world, but it clearly afforded me no entitlements in this place where people pumped their own gas.
My bottom lip uncharacteristically wobbled. “Sorry, that was bitchy, wasn’t it?”
“I mean, I wouldn’t lead with that story in casual conversation.”
His amusement settled me. I caught his eye, drawn to him for some unfathomable reason. Suddenly, I was the one who felt unworthy.
“Right, casual,” I said, clearing my throat with unnecessary drama. “Anyway, I’ll be out of your way as soon as I get the gas from the pump into my car. You were about to tell me the trick.”
“The trick”—he leaned in and dropped his voice to a whisper—“is to pay for it.”
“I don’t get it.”
“You go into the store. Give them money. Then gas will come out of the pump.”
“Hold on. You paybeforeyou get the gas? What kind of logic is that?”
“If I had to guess, it would be to keep people who look like me from stealing it.”
“Oh.” My eyes widened. “I…yes. I never thought of that.”
He pressed his lips together, unbothered.
“So, then, if I’m on empty now, but still need to flee Donald Lavelle the Third, how much money should I give the station?”
“How much do you have?”
I grabbed my purse, flipped open my wallet, and slid out a neat stack of bills. “Is that enough?”
He stiffened before hastily covering the wad with his hands.
