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“Maybe because Mr. Newlywed’s been busy with the kissing and dancing and . . .” He inhales. “Shit.”
“Shit?” I quirk a brow as I loop my finger around the neck of my beer again.
“Romance. You’re selling a very solid picture, and people are responding to it.”
So is my cock, but that’s not a topic for conversation.
“Why haven’t you got a date tonight?” Because what he said earlier isn’t true. I usually bring someone better looking than him. Someone female.
In fact, I almost forgot to cancel on my date tonight. I was kind of hoping that she might’ve already heard. No such luck. Fun times were not had during yesterday’s call.
“Too busy,” Max mutters. While the truth, it’s not the whole truth.
“You know what I’m gonna say, and I know you don’t want to hear it.” I get grief isn’t linear. That I can’t truly comprehend because I’ve never been where he is. Losing his wife, raising a son alone. The hours he works, I wouldn’t blame him if he sold up and walked away after the lock-in period. Retired to some island in the sunshine.
“Between the demands of this job, dating, and seeing my kid, there’s no competition.”
“You’ve gotta get out there more, or little Archie will be big Archer and going off to college when you’ll look down and realize your dick has fallen off from lack of use.”
“Hilarious,” he retorts.
“Did I see Wendy got a new assistant? She’s pretty cute.”
“One, I don’t shit where I eat,” he says.
“Or eat where you shit.”
“And two, I doubt Maddie will still be here next month.”
“She’s a temp? Perfect.”
“What she is, is fucking useless.”
“The assistant to the assistant . . . it can’t be that hard a gig.”
“Then how come she doesn’t know how to use a fucking paper clip?” There’s a story in there somewhere, but I’m not pressed for it tonight. “Anyway, I just came over to say you’re doing great.”
I huff out a laugh. “That’s what I just said to Clara.”
“Well, she is too. You look good together. One hundred percent natural.”
I take a sip of my beer, the cool liquid sliding down my throat. I should feel happy. Instead, the truth twists deep inside. Together, we’re a counterweight. A balancing scale. That much is real. Get your head back in the game, asshole.
Max opens his mouth to say something else when a guy steps up to us. Hair silvering at the temples and a white dinner jacket that says I’m rich and I don’t give a fuck what people say about my fashion sense.
“Art,” I say, holding out my hand. Art Shapiro, a former venture capitalist and member of Table’s board, is all sharp smiles as he shakes my hand.
“Troy. I hear congratulations are in order.”
“Thanks, Art.”
“Art,” Max says as the pair repeat the greeting.
“Quite the surprise.” His attention moves smoothly back my way.
“Well, Art, some things aren’t worth advertising until you’re certain.”
“An old flame, I heard. And here I had you pegged as an eternal bachelor, not that you seemed to be short of company.” All that’s missing from his speech is a bawdy wink. “Where is the lucky lady, anyway?”
