Page 19 of The Billionaire Mismatch

“Speaking of that,” he goes on, “how did it go?”

“How did what go?” I ask absently as I continue to evaluate.

“How did what go? The date! With the blonde who likes sushi,” he says.

“Right. It was fine,” I say, refusing to look at him. Matt spits out a mocking laugh, nearly spraying me with his saliva.

“Bullshit. It wasn’t just fine. I can tell,” he scoffs.

“You can tell,” I mock back.

“I can tell,” he parrots. “You have a look about you.”

I close the laptop and pass it back to him. “Oh really? And what kind of look is that?” I ask.

“Well, let’s see,” he says, leaning back in his chair and putting his feet up on my desk, crossed at the ankles as he grins at me. “When you go on a date, that’s just…fine…you come in looking energized.”

“Energized…” I nod.

“Yeah. Like you needed to get laid, and you got laid, and now you have a little more gas in your tank. But right now you have a different vibe going on.”

“Like?” I ask, annoyed with this conversation.

“Like you got laid, and it really took it out of you. Like there’s something residual there. Like it was a little more than that…” he presses, and I deadpan him.

“I don’t know what the fuck was in your coffee, but you’re out of your damn mind,” I snap.

But Matt knows me. And because he knows me, he just grins and waits before saying, “So…how was your date?”

“It was…” I pause. “Different,” I say.

“Different,” he echoes. And this is how a lot of our conversations go when Matt is trying to drag something out of me. Usually, I make it difficult enough that he gives up, at least for a while. Or I just tell him to fuck off. But today, I don’t have the willpower. I left all my willpower on my couch last night.

“Alright,” I say with an irritated exhale. “It was good.”

“How good? She threw herself at you good? Hard to get good?”

“It was good,” I say again. “She’s got substance. Most women’s heads are full of air. And she was cute, like in her photos. It was refreshing,” I say.

“Cute. Oh boy…” he shakes his head; the smirk plastered in place. Of course he chose that one word to sink his claws into.

“Yes, she was cute. What’s wrong with cute?” I ask.

“Hot means you wanna get in her panties. Same with sexy. Pretty means she’s intriguing enough to drop some cocktail money if you can’t find someone hot. But cute…cute means she got under your skin. And Luca Laurent is notorious for thick skin.”

“I told you,” I say. “She was…” I search for the word.

“Not like other girls,” he says and I let out another breath.

“She was smart,” I say again. “Capable of conversation.”

“I do love a good conversational tennis match. Especially with a girl who is cute…” he teases.

“At the end of the night, I asked her to come back to my place. And she was hesitant,” I say. Honestly, that’s new for me. I don’t typically have to try. But the challenge was also refreshing.

“Hard to get is always fun.”

“But in the end, I convinced her. And I was willing to take it slow, but…” I trail off.