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“If this were an interview,” I say, speeding up so that I’m walking beside him and not in his wake, “you wouldn’t be acing it.”
He grunts. “I’ve never been good at them,” he admits, surprising me. I didn’t think Nick’s ego could ever allow him to admit he’s not the best at something.
“Why?” I tease. “Get too nervous?”
Nick shoots me a look. “Don’t make fun of me,” he says.
“I’m not! Scout’s honor,” I say.
Another look says he doesn’t believe me at all.
“Really,” I insist. “Why not?”
“Isn’t it obvious? In an interview, the interviewer has all the control. I hate having another person hold me in the palm of their hand. That’s why I made it my goal to be the one giving the interviews and not the other way around.”
I chew on the inside of my cheek, turning his words around in my head. “I don’t buy it,” I say.
This time Nick’s look isn’t annoyed. It’s surprised, wary. “You don’t buy what?” he asks.
“That you’re bad at interviews,” I say. “I think you can be incredibly charming when you want to be. And not,” I say quickly at his raised eyebrows, “because of your personality transplant on the train. No, as much as you want to pretend otherwise, I just don’t buy that you could build a company this large and not have any interpersonal skills. You had to convince a whole lot of people to take a chance on you. This persona might work now that you’re in charge, but it’s not the one that got you there.”
I glance over at him when he doesn’t say anything. I expect to see him frowning, instead I’m surprised to find him fighting a smile.
“I can see why you’re in advertising,” he says at last.
“And why’s that?”
“You’re unusually perceptive.”
The way he says it makes me laugh and ask, “Annoyingly so?”
His eyes flash to mine and look away just as quickly. “I didn’t say that.”
“Well then hold your answer until after my follow up question. Which persona is the real Nick Madison?”
A pause in which we turn left, down yet another hallway. We’ve been walking at a clipped pace for a while now through a labyrinth of service halls deep within the bowels of the ship. I’m horribly lost, but Nick seems to know exactly where we are and where we’re going.
“I don’t understand the question,” Nick finally says.
I lengthen my stride. Nick seems to be walking faster. Whether this is a power move highlighting his ridiculously long legs or just him trying to get away from my questions I can’t decide.
“I mean, is this angry, jaded thing an act, the persona of The Boss, or is it the real you?”
Nick doesn’t answer. Instead he stops so abruptly that I go skidding on the polished floor several feet when I have to apply the brakes.
“And what else,” he asks stiffly, “would be ‘the real me’?”
“I met a charming guy on the train. He was relaxed, and rather funny if I remember correctly. Though he had some terrible pickup lines.”
“And if I recall correctly, our conversation didn’t end so well on the train either,” he says.
“But it started well enough.”
“Are you asking me if I put on a face at work that isn’t there on my off hours?” he asks with a raised eyebrow. “Of course. Don’t you?”
“So you do have a softer side,” I say.
“I didn’t say that.”
