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“Always thinking about that phone,” I murmur.
She rolls her eyes. “When you get paid more than thirty thousand dollars for posting a single picture of yourself, you can tell me to stop thinking about my phone,” she retorts.
“Thirty thousand? Not bad,” I admit. “Not that you need the money.”
“I don’t.”
“Then why do you do it?” I motion for her to move back to the front door.
To my surprise, she follows me without objection. “I like making my own money,” she replies, shrugging. “It’s liberating to buy something with money I earned, not money I inherited by…existing.”
“Have you ever thought about getting a job?”
“Go suck a dick, August.”
Her comment makes me laugh. “I’m not trying to insult you,” I explain. “I’m serious—like a job at Davenport-Ridgeway.”
“Me?”
“Who the hell else would I be referring to?”
Julia, in the process of removing her boots, clears her throat. “Sorry,” she practically whispers. “I’ve thought about getting a job. Emphasis on ‘thought.’ My father isn’t enthused by the idea, but I want to.”
“You could do anything you want,” I say before I grab her coat and bring it to the closet along with my own. “You’ve got a degree, you’re sharp, and you’re not intimidated by anyone. That’s all a job is. Confidence.”
“What a cute, male take on the workplace.”
“I’m just saying, you could do well in a lot of jobs. Forget your father. He doesn’t know.”
“You don’t know what he’s like.”
Surprised, I look over at her and find her expression serious. Confusion flashes through me. No way. It’s impossible for anyone in Julia’s sphere to believe she’s incapable of anything. But apparently her father underestimates her—and apparently she believes him.
“I know you don’t take shit from anyone, so why is he allowed to bring you down?” I question, shaking my head.
She folds her lips over like she’s masking a smile before she regroups and says, “He’s very successful, if you haven’t noticed.”
“So am I, and I’m telling you—your father doesn’t know shit.”
“Words that could only come from the pride and joy of MIT.”
I know a deflection when I hear one. Fine. If she doesn’t want to talk, I won’t force her.
“So you do know what MIT is,” I point out instead.
Her silent smirk shouldn’t be as adorable as it is—in fact, nothing about this woman should be adorable because she’s got motherfucking ice in her veins. But I can’t deny it, no matter how hard I try.
She clears her throat. “So, what’s for lunch—and dinner, for that matter?”
“Whatever we make. I have some frozen meals that Brent flew in.”
Her expression is pure disgust. “Frozen food? Frozen food? You have a chef’s kitchen and a La Cornue stove, and you want to reheat a frozen meal?”
“Not like a Lean Cuisine,” I clarify. “He had my chef back in London make them and freeze them.”
“Why in god’s name would I assume you were going to feed me a Lean Cuisine, August?” she inquires, frowning hard. “I know you have countless fancy frozen meals piled up—and there’s no way in hell we’re eating them.”
Before I can protest, Julia goes to the kitchen, where she opens the fridge like she owns the place.
