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He looks me dead in the eye with not an ounce of humor. "No, I'd pay sixty dollars for you to just look at it."
I nearly choke on my water. Exhaling calmly through my nostrils, I swallow the burn. Keep it together, I scold myself. He's rich. You knew that already. Get over it. At this point, you've done nothing but inflate his ego more than it already was.
Clearing my throat, I shrug. "It's okay, really. I'm not a fan of tiramisu for leftovers."
I expect another round of persistence from him, but instead, all I receive is the oddest expression. One I'd earn if I said the Yankees were from Philly or the Empire State was in Seattle. Utter. Confusion.
"Leftovers?" He says the word as if it's got a bad taste.
Now it's my turn to nod, my brows cinching in confusion.
"Why would you take leftovers?"
What is this, some foreign concept to the guy???
"So I can eat it tomorrow...? Duh."
"Wouldn't you rather just go out again?"
Case in point. Unfathomable wealth.
Who can afford going out to eat every night? Especially to a place like this. I skip the small talk. "How many times have you been here, to this steakhouse?" Waiting for his reply, my stomach twists uncomfortably, for a reason I can't quite pinpoint.
"Hmmm..." He sweeps his thumb and forefinger across his jaw in the most distracting way. "This has to be probably my twelfth visit." My gut drops, immediately identifying the source of my queasiness.
Jealousy.
Suppressing any and all emotions that may surface, I scan the restaurant's spacious layout for perhaps the tenth time tonight. But with a new perspective.
Intimate tables line the perimeter, cloaked in white clothes and accented by spotless silverware and wine glasses. Ambient lighting glows from low-hanging, modern chandeliers, flickering candles, and the spectacular view, casting smooth shadows along the faces of affluent men in suits and women donning cocktail dresses. Dresses that, upon a closer look, trump mine in every sense. They sparkle a little brighter. Drape a little smoother. Accentuate their curves a little more seductively.
This is obviously a date night hotspot. And to Hayden, I'm his twelfth.
The number stings in my headspace, but I quickly bat it away. "Wow..." is all I say, returning to his confident self, surprised when my voice comes out even. Rid of all that pesky—pointless—jealousy, because there's nothing dumber than being hung up on a playboy. A man who made his rounds through my entire high school, then graduated to Princeton's sorority sisters, and is now on the prowl amidst New York City's upper elite.
You're nothing special to him, Juliana, those little devils whisper. How many times does he have to remind you?
When he counters with another flirtatious remark, I stop our conversation in its tracks, and with it, killing off any unwanted feelings toward my brother's best friend. Then I resort to my favorite form of deflection—insulting him.
I roll my eyes. "You're insufferable."
"And what will you have, miss?" the bartender asks. Cleanly shaven and wearing a professional vest with the Mandarin Oriental's crest, he complements the bar's gentlemen-esque vibe.
"I'll take a Shirley Temple, please."
Seated beside me on a leather-backed barstool, Hayden grumbles curses under his breath. The bartender nods, not the least bit offended by my non-alcoholic choice, like some people, then disappears down the wall lined with top-shelf liquors. None of which are required for my fruity refresher.
I swivel on my stool to find Hayden pinching the bridge of his nose, as if he's physically in pain. "We're in a bar, Jules. What twenty-three-year-old orders a Shirley fucking Temple at a bar?"
Pursing my lips, I don't bite the bait, ignoring his taunt that would only lead to more banter and bullshit. Enough is enough. Tonight, I played his stupid games, sat through a date he tricked me into attending, then lured me into staying. I even let him walk us straight into a lounge once our elevator opened to the lobby floor, when the last thing I want is to share a drink with him. But no more. Now, I want what he promised.
Answers. And answers only.
I cross my legs, neatly intertwining my fingers over my knee. "Tell me how I can land my game a feature at DreamScape."
His face falls, but a smirk still snags the corners of his mouth. "Don't you want to wait for your drink before grilling me?"
"No."
