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Just as I prepare to dismiss myself, she asks, “Why?”
The temptation to lie is batted right off my tongue.
“Why do you ask, Mr. Wilcox?” Her voice is now uncomfortable close. “Why do you care?”
“I…” nervousness forcefully penetrates my tone, “believe…Mr. Reese – er – uh – J.T.-”
“Puppet Boy.”
The playful correction successfully smothers out the weariness that has worked itself into my system. “He has a prior engagement this evening.”
“Then I guess I’ll eat and binge alone.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“Shouldn’t what?”
“Dine alone.”
An undeniably impish hum precedes her questioning, “Is that statement coming from the concerned billionaire host who doesn’t want his guest getting into trouble unsupervised or the sexy billionaire host who’s trying to ask me out on a see you naked type of date?”
“I don’t have to see you naked.”
“But you are asking for a date?”
Heat sadistically burns my cheeks and vocal cords, yet I battle past it to airily reply, “Yes.”
Silence swings painfully between us for so long that I convince myself to take it back.
To claim I’m merely doing my best to be a good host.
Friend.
Maybe us being friends would be better.
I don’t have many.
And having her in my orbit, burning bright like the sun I don’t let touch my skin anymore, would be beneficial.
Definitely less harmful for us both.
“If you agree to my terms, I’ll say yes.”
Intrigue and hilarity have the corners of my lips kicking upwards. “You want me to negotiate for a date?”
“No,” she sassily counters, “you’re going to agree to my demands and get a date at eight o’clock.”
I can’t stop the light laugh that appears. “Oh, now they’re demands?”
“They’ve always been demands. You just unwisely believed there would be room for counters.”
“And there’s not?”
“Correct.”
Impressed by her tactic, I gesture a palm to my side to insist she continues.
“One, it will be a private date. This means no cameras. No phones. No Starfleet telecoms. Nothing that you can use to get you out of the awkward moments every first date has to deal with at some point.”
