“Yes, very good. You can stop showing off now.”
Alex bites the inside of his cheek. “I spent all last night trying to forecast revenue forBite the Hand’s first six months. Gus wants me to distribute packets in tomorrow’s meeting.”
I think I know where this is going, but I want him to squirm for it. “And?”
He steps toward me. Today, he smells like soap and linen. “And I think my numbers are garbage because I’m trash at this kind of stuff. Can you please take a look?”
“Why didn’t you ask me for help earlier, Alex? That is literally what I’m here for.”
His eyes are pinned to mine. “Honestly?”
“Um. Sure, why not?”
“I was trying to impress you.” His voice comes out rough at the admission.
And that’s when I see it: Behind the humor on his face, there’s a sort of desperation. A hunger that makes me feel so desired, I could bottle that shit and sell it as an aphrodisiac.
“So…,” he goes on, “since that obviously flopped. If I go grab my stuff, and I buy you dinner in exchange for thirty minutes of your analytical brilliance… will you leave with me?”
I clutch my computer tight to my chest and say, “Sure.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
We settle into a table with a rickety leg at a quiet restaurant in SoHo, split the second-cheapest bottle of red wine, and order a couple of appetizers to share. Twenty minutes after we’ve finished grazing on the food, we pore over his spreadsheet, shoulders touching, working out the kinks.
The waitress comes by to clear our plates, and Alex closes the laptop and puts it back in his leather Herschel backpack. “So, Brijesh told me you play guitar.”
My lips pull up. “I’m not positive you could call what I do to a guitarplayingit, but yeah, a little. My dad taught me.”
“What was the first song you learned?”
I conjure a snapshot of me and Dad sitting on our porch. A tiny house on a huge acre of unkept land. The association is pre-Jerry, because he basically transformed the landscaping of our place when he moved in, but for a few years there, Dad and I lived among the proper brush, two people healing together while nothing else mattered. When I wasreallyyoung, Dad would strum for me as I helddown the strings with the finger pads of both of my hands, working to build up calluses and memorize chords.
“It was one of my dad’s songs. ‘Road to Heartbreak.’ He wanted to teach me songs like ‘Smoke on the Water,’ ‘Dust on the Bottle,’ and ‘American Pie,’ but I just wanted to learn all his stuff first.”
Alex sets his elbows on the table and leans forward, causing the muscles of his shoulders to strain. “Did you ever… I don’t know, like, perform?”
What I will absolutelynotbe telling Alex Harrison about is the talent show fiasco. “I’m sort of allergic to strangers.”
“Yes,” he rasps. “I’ve noticed.” When I glance up, he’s watching me thoughtfully. “I’m sensing an ellipsis.”
I bite my bottom lip. Rolling over how honest he’s been with me. Thinking I can tell himsomethinghonest, at least.
I can be patient with you, Casey.
“I had a stutter as a kid. It was Jerry who first suggested I try singing along while I played guitar. I still have no idea why it worked better than speech therapy, but somehow, music was the thing that helped.”
He holds my gaze and nods. “Sure did. You slayed karaoke like a champ.”
“Well, all credits to my Hello Kitty boom box and Miriam’s One Direction phase.”
He laughs and empties the wine between each of our glasses. Something about the angle, the lighting, makes him look like his father’s son right now.
“Alex?”
“Hmm?”
“Is there a chance your father telling you to put in your notice was his way of trying to protect you?”
