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“Did I what?”
“Want to meet me.”
“Does anyone ever want to meet an asshole?” she snaps.
“Did you want to meet me, Cat?” I press.
“Does that matter at this point?”
Good question, I think, and yet it does. “Answer,” I order.
“I would have if you were just another good-looking asshole, because then I could have—” She stops herself and repeats, “If you were just another asshole.”
“Good looking?”
“Asshole,” she replies.
“Then you could have fixed me?”
“You don’t fix assholes.”
“Then why consider meeting me if you didn’t know me and you thought I was an asshole?”
“You get naked with assholes and then you say goodbye.”
My cock is instantly, readily on alert. I step closer, a lean from touching her. “That was your plan? To fuck me and say goodbye.”
“It was an option.”
I arch a brow. “Was?”
“Now you’re my job, and I can’t cross that line.”
We’ll see about that, I think. “Who do you write for?”
“The New York News. The ‘Cat Does Crime’ column.”
“And what makes you qualified to write that kind of column?”
“A Harvard law degree, five years of practice, and a family of attorneys.”
“A Harvard law degree,” I say, surprised, though now that I’ve sparred with her, I shouldn’t be.
“And Harvard trumps Yale,” she says, pitting her degree against mine.
My lips curve with that obvious jab and challenge. “And yet I’m practicing and you aren’t.”
“Being good at what you do doesn’t matter if you’re miserable.”
“If you were miserable, why did you do it?”
“None of your business,” she says.
“What if I want it to be my business?”
“Give me a real interview, and you can ask me as many questions as I ask you,” she negotiates.
“I’ll think about it.”
