He almost rolls his eyes. “Do you want to know the reason I’m here? And I don’t mean them.” He glances across the table to the chairs yet to be filled. “The reason I came with you? It’s because you intrigue the hell out of me.”
Intriguing. That’s more than I expected. Better thanprettyorhotor any of that mundane stuff. And boy, do I soak up his regard like a sponge, no words between us, just a thousand crazy ideas. Then I remember what he does for a living—again—and the pleasure swelling in my chest pops like a painful blister.
“You’re good at this,” I say like I know what I’m talking about.
Something clouds his expression before he gives a nod, his fingers rubbing across a suddenly taut jaw. “The thing is, I mean it.”
“Small talk,” I almost shout. “We should ... talk.”
“I did suggest that earlier.”
“Did you? I don’t recall.”
“Tell me something,” he purrs, and I remember. “Tell me something about Ryan.”
“Now, there’s a can of worms you really don’t want to open.”
“Fuck that. Tell me all the things.”
“You asked for it,” I say. Though it sounds more likeYour funeral. “I’m an only child. Adult orphan.” I pull a stupidly sad face and make a crying gesture with my index finger before realizing I have no idea why I told him. “Favorite food?” I hedge, and he nods. “Carnitas, specifically from a Mexican place in FiDi. Oh, and zeppole. Can’t forget zeppole.”
“Specifically from?”
“Someplace midtown.” Zeppole. My having-a-good-day treat, probably because the taste reminds me of times past. Of elephant ears, of podunk towns and country fairs. “Pastimes?” I rush on, conscious of revealing too much.
“Anything. Everything.”
“I love my job—I think I already said that. If I’m not working, I’m thinking about working. It’s the best thing ever when my instincts are on point.”
“They must love you.” That doesn’t sound like a compliment.
“Yeah, especially as they got me cheap.”
“The fuck?” he mutters. “You’re really not selling this outfit.”
But I know I was lucky to get a job here. I likely only got an interview because of my name.Like they confused me for a guy.I don’t have an MBA from Harvard, and I didn’t go to business school. I started at an investment bank with a degree from a mediocre college I worked my ass off to put myself through. The bank job was a back-end role, and I just got lucky. Asked a lot of questions. Learned about the business. And once I had my butt in the interview seat, my ego did the rest. But yeah, they got me cheap.
“I’m not complaining. The industry is notorious for underpaying women, but my bonus kind of makes up for things. What else?” I ponder, refusing to return to our stare fest. “I’m not big on friends. Or people generally. I’m impulsive, quick to judge, opinionated ... and I can’t cook.”
At this, he laughs. And I love that I made him do that.
“Couples kiss, Ryan. They touch.”
Yes, please. Sign me up for some of that lady’s choice, whatever that meant.
“Your turn.” My mind is a spaghetti mess of thoughts, and the second the words are out of my mouth, I remember he doesn’t share.On dates.
“Let me see,” he says, his mouth curling in one corner.Like the cat anticipating a juicy treat.“I have more siblings than is seemly.”
My expression must reflect my surprise.
“I blame the poor choice of TV shows in Ireland during the ’80s and ’90s.”
“Wow. Good for your parents!” Maybe he’s not telling the truth—why would he tell the truth?
“What a deviant you are, talking about my parents’ sex life.”
“I am not! It was you who—”
