Page 25 of On The Edge

“Thanks for the warning.”

“Did you find something different in your Google search of me?”

“I didn’t . . . I—”

“Of course you did.” He winks. “You’re a smart woman who wanted to see what she’d agreed to. I clearly did the same.” His smile is genuine when I’d expect placating. “So you like reading and music. What else? Let me guess. You help orphans in your spare time and raise money to save the whales too?”

“What?” I cough out a laugh.

“We’ve been in talks with Kevin for months. All of a sudden you show up at the meeting for the first time like a plant, so I figured you were Mother Teresa or someone saintly to try and make me look better.”

“I wasn’t in any of the three possible girlfriend folders Kevin had for you to pick from. You chose me. Not the other way around.”

“Ouch. Hit me where it hurts. I can take it.”

“And I’m not a saint.”

“A sinner then?” He gets a devilish smirk and a gleam in his eye. “Right up my alley.”

“Do you ever take anything seriously?”

“I take everything seriously. And with a grain of salt. It’s called balance. Kind of like how some days I drink whiskey and others I drink water. You have to change positions every so often or else things get boring, right?” he asks, the innuendo front and center.

“Right. Sure. Sounds good. Easy for you to say when this whole conversation has been about you asking me questions.”

“And?”

“And,” I state, not certain what it is I need to say.

“And you can google me down to what kind of underwear I wear, my favorite food, my favorite vacation—even my goddamn height and weight. You have a question? Ask away. The floor is yours.”

Our gazes hold for a beat. “Why don’t you have an accent?” It’s there one minute, gone the next. It doesn’t make sense to me.

“I was sent to the best schools. The kind where diplomats and billionaires send their kids with the goal in mind to be able to fit in any part of the world. English was a privilege we were expected to speak flawlessly.”

“And yet your family seems so proud of its heritage.”

“We are. And you’ll hear my accent in full force when talking to fellow Spaniards . . . but my grandfather grew up in a time when he was looked down upon, sometimes discriminated against because of his accent. He missed out on endorsement deals because he wasn’t mainstream enough. He was looked over for interviews because his accent was so strong. He was determined for that to not happen to his children and their children. We were taught to own our accents with our family, in our country, but to sound worldly everywhere else.” He angles his head to the side and stares at me. “Do you think Kevin would be interested in me for this deal if my accent was so thick that the global market couldn’t understand me? No. He wouldn’t. So something I hated as a kid has served me well as an adult.”

“I get it. But I don’t.”

He nods subtly. “There is a lot about being a Navarro that doesn’t make a whole hell of a lot of sense.”

I study him. The concept’s interesting and sad all at the same time, but I understand the why behind it. His grandfather gave him a gift that most would overlook due to pride.

“What else do you have for me, because if you dug deep enough you would have found that answer too?” He winks. “There is nothing secret nor sacred when you’re in the public eye, Madds. You’ll learn that soon enough.”

He says that like people are going to care about me simply because I’m going to be seen with him. They won’t.

“You have to have some things that are kept private,” I say.

He tilts his head from side to side. “Privacy is a luxury I’m not afforded as a Navarro, but yes, there are a few things that aren’t public knowledge. Things I intend to keep that way. Other than that, it seems I’m fair fucking game, so when I ask you questions, I want answers.”

“And when I tell you this isn’t going to work, I mean it.”

“I’m thinking sowing some of those oats might do a whole hell of a lot of good on adding a bit of optimism into your life,” he deadpans, which only serves to irritate me.

“This is getting us nowhere,” I mutter in frustration, unbuckle my seatbelt, and head toward the restroom. A plane bathroom is a plane bathroom but even this one is just as luxurious as the rest of the jet.