Page 10 of Hate To Be Mine

I ordered my grilled chicken salad without looking at the menu. Sebastian got grilled chicken with no butter or oil and steamed veggies.

Once the waiter left, Sebastian picked up his coffee cup, took a long sip, and looked at me over the rim. His cocky attitude was back in place.

“You don’t take anything seriously, do you?” I said, trying to regain my footing in this conversation.

“There’s nothing wrong with having fun while you work,” he countered. “You should try it sometime. Might make that permanent frown line between your eyebrows less pronounced.”

I resisted the urge to touch my forehead. “There’s nothing fun about insurance. I usually deal with people when they’re going through a bad time. Otherwise, they wouldn’t need insurance in the first place.”

“What kind of ghoul goes into insurance?” he asked with another cocky smirk. “Bunch of thieves who refuse to pay for medical procedures and find loopholes to screw over people when they need help most.”

“Well, I don’t work with that kind of insurance,” I said, keeping my voice level despite the defensive edge creeping in. “We do specialty coverage. Unique situations. And I was born into it. My father runs the company.”

That seemed to lower his hackles a bit. “That, I can understand. I went into the family business too.”

We looked at each other across the table, and something almost like understanding passed between us. Two people carrying the weight of family expectations, trying to prove themselves in businesses they’d inherited rather than chosen.

I still didn’t like him, but I felt like I understood him just a little better. Not that he was a deep well, but I could at least relate to him in some small way.

The food came out and we started eating.

Sebastian smirked at me. “Are you ready to spend two weeks on a tropical island?”

He was turning on the charm, and I didn’t like it. “It’s not a vacation.”

His eyes met mine. “What are you planning to wear?”

I blinked at the question, not sure why he was asking. “The same thing I’m wearing right now. Obviously.”

He rolled his eyes and chuckled. “Yes, you’re all about total coverage at Simmons Surety. God forbid you wear a bikini.”

“I’ll be working,” I said, drawing my shoulders back and giving him a stern look. “So I’ll be wearing my work wardrobe. Pantsuits. Professional attire. You should try it sometime.”

He actually laughed again, though this time it sounded more incredulous than amused. “You have no idea what you’re getting into, do you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Miratoa isn’t Manhattan. It’s humid. It’s hot. It’s beaches and jungle and you’ll be outside all day, every day. You show up in those wool pantsuits and you’ll have heatstroke by noon on the first day.”

“I’m sure I’ll manage,” I said stiffly, though doubt was already creeping in. I had done my research of Miratoa, obviously. I knew it was tropical. But somehow, I’d still been picturing myself in my usual clothing, just sweating more.

“Do you even own anything that isn’t a pantsuit?” he asked.

“Of course I do. I have casual clothes.”

“Like what?”

“Like… khakis. And polo shirts.”

He looked at me as if I’d just described my wardrobe as consisting entirely of burlap sacks. “When was the last time you went on vacation?”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“When, Bernadette?”

The use of my first name caught me off guard. So did the genuine curiosity in his voice, like he actually wanted to know.

“I don’t really take vacations,” I admitted. “I work. A lot.”