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Chapter 8
It was the worst restaurant Gertrude had ever been in.
The menu consisted of like, six items, including that caviar Barret spoke about. The names seemed French, and the prices made her head spin. Half a month’s rent for a single dinner.
She didn’t eat out much; it was one of those things that were saved for her mother’s birthday or, lately, if the DNF wanted to go out after work. It made her uncomfortable, asking people for things, beckoning them around to deliver ketchup or salt. Being a customer was an act that made too much fuss of her existence. Sometimes she'd see a waitress looking flustered and feel a pang; a desire to put on an apron and help, even just a little. Carry drinks or something.
But that wasn’t the character she was being now. She was Billionaire Barret’s date, here to gasp in delight at the world of riches before her.
There was mounting pressure to flirt, to get him engaged and hanging on every word she was saying. Gertrude bought time by gazing at the menu, wondering what interesting thing she could glean to say that would tip the scales a little further in her favor. God, was this what dating was like? She’d had boyfriends, timid-yet pushy boys who grew frustrated with her after a while. As though they were expecting her to defrost after they had sex and become their sweet, angelic girlfriend. When she didn’t text or gush or ooze her wanting all over them, they withdrew to a cool distance. One had cheated on her, one had ghosted her, and one had parted respectfully enough when she asked that they wait to sleep together. She still saw that one at college, enough to throw awkward glances at each other like mages casting spells. But those interactions, as disastrous as they had been, were filled with a powerful lack of interest from her. She didn't want anything from them, really. They'd simply been the most persistent, so she let them get close even though she didn't feel much. One of her acts of trying to be a full-fledged person. That's what you did, right? You got boyfriends, you had sex, you broke up, you had exes that you told your friends "Guess who I saw at Wal-Mart?"
Dating was checking a box on the Real Human worksheet. But now she wanted something. Wanted this fucking guy to like her.
The date dragged on. She tried asking about his interests, but he either deflected or didn’t have any interests beyond owning things. When she asked about his family, he said bitterly: “My parents left me with only their expectations.” He drained wine out of his glass. “Which I am not fulfilling.”
He was perfect stereotype, Gertrude had to give him that.
Food was served, an unrecognizable mass of colors and shapes that tasted vaguely like salmon with some sort of red sauce, and a bizarre turtle soup. When she went to take a bite, he laughed and told her that she had to use the smaller fork, and dip it in the sauce, or the flavor would be off.
“Savor it, princess.”
He’d taken to calling her that. She was considering asking for a shot of tequila for every time he said it.
Whatever false chemistry they’d had in the car faded rapidly as sullen silence drifted between them, a wall of bricks slowly erecting down the center of the table, until they only focused down on their plates.
This was going to be impossible.
He asked a question, but she didn’t hear it, too caught in the depths of her own musings,
“I don’t like being ignored,” he said stiffly.
Oh well, she thought. If this plan was going to fall apart, then at least she could have fun taking down the ego of the asshole buying out the store. She’d mess with him, then text Olivia, and they’d figure out their next steps. This would just be a bad date, like a million bad dates people went on every day.
Another checkmark on the worksheet.
She bit her lip and continued picking at her food.
“I asked you a question.”
Gertrude pretended she didn’t hear. It was hard not to laugh. There was genuine distress in his voice.
“Gertrude!”
Coyly, she looked up. “Yes?”
“There seems to be a problem.” He gestured at the air between them. “This doesn’t seem to be working.”
“I don’t have a problem.” She tore a piece off a roll and ate it. “I’m sorry, I think you have the wrong idea about me. I’m not interested in all of this. I’m not impressed by it and I don’t care how many fast food-chains you own.” She settled back in her chair, folding her hands over her belly. She was full—the salmon red sauce thing was actually pretty good. Was it four hundred dollars good? No.
Barret was unbothered. He relaxed, his shoulders losing their confrontational posturing, his carefully arranged expression of amiable neutrality dissolving into a wolfish interest. That pissed her off; she didn't like him looking smug. His very face was a taunt.
Unfortunately, it made him more attractive. The self-possessed air he carried himself with gave way to easy confidence as both of them relaxed and put their cards on the table.
“Honestly,” he said, “I asked you out because you didn’t like me.”
“Is that your kink?”
“Women who hate me?” He shrugged. “It is a bit more fun.”
