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“That isn’t an answer.”
“It’s the one you have.”
He’s not going to help himself, even if he wanted to. This man, he does this shit without thought because it is part of him, and he can hide it, I think, but perhaps not in the way that he needs to help him.
“You want to change,” I say. “Or change long enough and well enough to make it convincing, so your style of flirting with intent has to stop. We need to set up…”
I trail off. He’s nodding at my words, making murmurs of agreement, but he’s not paying attention. His body language gives him away. Ryder’s focused on the room beyond me, on the women who are giving him the eye.
I don’t need to turn to see that. There’s a flicker of response in his face, subtle and not for me, a welcoming, fuck me kind of fleeting expression that probably gives underwear companies all kinds of thrills if they knew what he did to their merchandise.
His gaze shifts back to me as the pause goes on long enough. “Set up what?”
“A game plan. That includes your behavior, attitude, standing, body language, and any alien lifeforms you deem appropriate. Sound good?”
“Sure.”
I nod. Then I push back my stool, rise and walk out into the busy nightlight of the East Village.
“Elliot.”
I slow my pace and then stop.
“Elliot?”
Slowly I turn and look at him. He has his jacket in one hand, and the sleeves to his sweater are slightly pushed up, ink showing from above the wrist on the left one. Of course Ryder Sinclair has tattoos.
“You pay me an astronomical fee to turn your life into something you need it to be. If you sabotage that, I still get paid.”
“I’m not—”
“You were in there,” I say, stalking up to him, “flirting and not paying attention to me. The first tells me you don’t take anything but a good time seriously. The second, that you don’t take me seriously. And that means we have a problem.”
Ryder shrugs. “I like fun. That’s why it’s called fun and not work. And I do take you seriously.”
“No, you don’t. And if you don’t focus, I’ll walk. You need me way more than I need you and your money.” I say this quietly. “Actually, I don’t need your money.”
“Okay, fine. And I know what I was doing. I wanted to see what you’re like, what you see. This is my life I’m putting in your hands.”
“Do you do that to everyone?”
He rubs the back of his neck. “Put my life in other people’s hands?”
“Test them like you were doing to me.”
“You were testing me.”
“It’s my job to assess and work out the best approach. I don’t take your word for it. Otherwise I’d be doing baseline PR work.”
“No,” he says, finally, “I don’t put my life in anyone’s hands. And yes, I like to see who and what I’m working with. In all aspects.”
I should end it now, cut my losses. Walk.
And Ryder smiles his melting smile that floors me.
“C’mon, Elliot. We’ll start again. I know a place.”
Against my better judgment, I say okay. We end up walking through the streets from the East Village to SoHo. We’re on Wooster Street between Houston and Prince, close to my office, but he pushes open a door to a bar I don’t even know is there and we go in. It’s quiet, no nonsense and old school. Not new SoHo vibe.
