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“It’s a version of charm.” I stop myself. I’m verging on flirting with him, and that’s dangerous. Not to mention completely a waste of time. “Basically, while we spend some time together in the next couple of days, those are the ground rules. I’m going to get to know you a little better. And you’re not going to make a decision outside of work without my approval.”
“Are you offering to be my babysitter, Elliot?”
“I need control—”
“No. I see my brothers. I go out. I—”
“Get yourself embroiled in scandal. We’ll work on that all tomorrow. Right now, I need to know about you. Family, schooling, skeletons in your closet.”
He nods slowly and then leans an elbow on the bar. “All my skeletons are strictly closet-free.”
“No friends?”
“I have friends, but I don’t hang out on a regular basis like I do with my brothers.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“What about you?”
“We’re not here to talk about me,” I say with a frown, fingers going tight on my cold glass.
His gaze is back on my mouth again. “Maybe we should.”
“Maybe we should stick to the plan.”
“I’m the youngest of four. My parents split when I was maybe six.” He downs his drink and I get the feeling he knows exactly when and this is his spiel.
“My mother never remarried. My father had a string of ex-wives, younger and younger and all unnervingly similar to our mother. And for some reason they remained close. My parents. Not my father and his exes. We were instilled with a work ethic from him early on.”
“And you rebelled?”
“Some might say I’ve got his eye for the ladies.” He pauses. “Although they don’t look like my mother. That would be weird.”
I laugh, I can’t help it. “Positively Oedipal.”
“And look what happened there.” He pauses again. “You know I went to Princeton, but I got in on my own merit. I worked for it. That was the rule. We work for what we get.”
“You didn’t want to go?”
“It’s one of the best schools.”
“But you’d have preferred elsewhere.”
“Why would you say that?” he asks softly.
“Your expression. I don’t know. Tell me about your family and your business.”
Ryder does, and he spins charming tales out of everything. He’s smooth and slick and weirdly lacking in artifice, even when I know he’s speaking by rote.
And through this, even though he gets looks from women who come in, I can’t tell if he sees them, he’s focused on me. Or should I say, he’s doing what I asked.
As we call it a night at two am, I wonder what it would be like to have that focus on me with such intent behind it, but I know I’d never stand a chance.
It’s seven a.m. and I don’t expect Ryder to be up, but he is. He’s dressed and looking far perkier than I feel after a late night and a few more drinks than I usually have. I’ve gone extra professional today with my suit and pulled back hair and the way he looks at me makes me think he knows it’s some kind of armor.
He stands in the doorway of his loft in TriBeCa with two cups and he says, “I’d ask you in, but you look dressed to murder the day.”
“Shall we?” I ignore his comment. “Time’s wasting.”
