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“I’m me,” I say lamely, just to answer his question. “I think I’m nice. I try to see the good in other people.”
He chuckles softly. “Then it sounds like you’re a little too nice,” he says.
“What? You don’t believe that people are good?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Not in the slightest.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not living in the climactic act of a Christmas movie,” he says. “And I’m in business. Which tends to show you the reality of human nature.”
“And that is…?”
“People are calculating, self-interested, and cruel,” he says matter-of-factly.
I scoff. “You don’t really think that,” I say.
He shrugs. “Just what I’ve seen,” he replies.
“Well I’m also in business,” I say, “and I’ve worked with a lot of really great, kind people.”
Nick’s smile is teasing. “I’m guessing you work in Boston then,” he says.
“I do.”
“New York is a different world.”
I roll my eyes. “You guys from Manhattan always say that. It’s just another city. Besides, I’ve also met plenty of difficult people, and I’ve worked with some complete assholes. Hasn’t changed my outlook that much.”
Nick examines me, taking his time with his response. Then he says, simply, “I hope that’s true. It’s always a shame to see someone get disillusioned.”
“Well maybe you’re the one who’s under the illusion,” I say, somewhat crossly. What’s this guy’s deal, making sweeping statements about my level of innocence? He doesn’t know me at all.
Nick laughs in the face of my irritation. It’s a low, deep chuckle and it’s surprisingly nice to hear. It eats away at my annoyance.
“Calm down, tiger,” he says. “We’ll agree to disagree. How long are you in the city for?”
“Minimum a week, longer if I get the contract I’m pitching for,” I say.
Nick twists so that his muscular body leans against the bar. He sips at his drink. There’s a barely constrained energy that pulses from him, like a cat moments before it pounces.
“I hope you don’t get that contract then,” he says. “Because if you spend too long in this city, you might end up jaded like me.”
“Something tells me you’d be jaded if you lived in Honolulu,” I say.
His handsome face twists. “Don’t get me started on tourists.”
“And all that sun,” I add. “How would you ever brood?”
Nick tries to look offended. “Who says I brood?” he demands.
“I guarantee at least two hours a week are devoted to staring out a window while sipping a glass of Scotch,” I challenge.
His chin lifts. “Completely wrong.” A pause. “It’s actually bourbon,” he admits.
“Ha!” I say. “I knew it.”
“Okay you got me,” he says. Then his face relaxes back into contemplation as he studies me. “But now it’s my turn,” he says.
