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“So what? Being a jerk to people in lower positions than you is?”
Usually I wouldn’t be pushing it so much, but his actions hit a little close to home. They kind of remind me of Jonathan earlier today, and Hans as well. Men who don’t give a fuck about the way their actions affect those around them.
“What would you like me to do in order for us to move past this?” he asks, not looking the least bit unfazed.
I get the feeling nothing fazes him.
“You could apologize to the waiter,” I suggest.
His lips tilt up in a smirk. “That’s not going to happen.”
“Because you’re better than him?”
“I am better than him, but that’s not the point,” he replies confidently. “He made a mistake and spilled my drink all over the floor, and I berated him in return. I’d say that’s a fair trade-off.”
That’s truly warped logic. But I doubt I’d be able to convince him to see my side of things.
“Alright, fine. Moving on, then. Where are you from? I’m guessing you’re not American.”
He shakes his head. “I’m Russian. Born and raised in Moscow until I moved to the US as a teenager.”
“Alone?” I question.
“With my little brother,” he answers vaguely.
He doesn’t seem to want to talk more on the subject, and I don’t push.
“How old are you?”
“A lot older than you,” he says on a smirk. “Why? Is that a problem?”
“Not really,” I reply easily. “But I’d still like to know.”
“I’m forty-four years old.”
My eyes widen slightly. I would not have guessed he was that old. He certainly doesn’t look forty-four.
“Nice genes,” I say under my breath, but of course he still hears me.
“Thank you. I would ask for your age, but in all my years of living, women have never reacted kindly to that question.”
“Maybe you’ve been hanging out with the wrong women,” I point out. “I’m twenty-four. It’s not a big deal.”
He’s about to say something else but the waiter interrupts. A different waiter this time, who asks what we’d like to eat for the main course. I ask for some seafood pasta because that’s never failed me before. He seems to know a lot about Chinese food and I watch fascinated as he requests for chow mein, whichis basically stir-fried noodles with tofu. He also asks for some expensive wine, which is brought out a couple of seconds later.
“I’m not sure I know a lot of twenty-four year olds who would have stood in front of me and spoken to me the way you did, Lucia. It’s fascinating. Have you always been so bold?” he asks.
I sigh softly. “Unfortunately, yes. I have a hard time backing down. My sister likes to call me a daredevil. I got into a lot of trouble when I was younger due to my unflinching personality.”
“I’m sure you still get into a lot of trouble now,” he points out.
That makes me smile. “Maybe.”
He asks me what I do for work and I’m in the middle of explaining what it is exactly a marketing executive does at a fashion magazine when our food is brought out. We eat in silence and I’m surprised by how comfortable it is. We’re able to settle into this easy companionship like we’ve known each other for years instead of an hour.
When we’re done eaten, our plates are cleared from the table.
“Dessert? I’m sure you’d enjoy the chocolate mousse,” he states.
