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Chapter Twenty
There. Not very subtle, but hey.
He bites into what must be the brain-based taco, and I half expect his eyes to glaze over, zombie style.
“My last relationship was a couple of years ago,” he says after he swallows. “She broke up with me because we didn’t have much in common—her words, not mine.”
Not enough in common? That’s better than “couldn’t handle Dracula.”
“Since that breakup, I haven’t dated much,” he continues. “Not because I’m heartbroken or anything. I’ve just gotten very busy with my company and helping Alex with his.”
So not currently dating?
Must suppress glee.
This also means the perfume lady is, at most, a casual hookup—way better than a steady girlfriend, though still not ideal.
But, wait, is he still too busy for dating someone worthy… someone who might look like Snow White?
How obvious will it be if my second question is about that?
Transparent.
One corner of his mouth lifts in a devilish smile. “You have one more question. I’m curious to hear it.”
Here’s proof I’m not as daring as he thinks. Instead of asking if he’s ready to date now, specifically me, I blurt, “How come there’s no information about you online?”
The smile disappears. “Because I’m an extremely private person.”
I heap some fries onto my plate. “That’s not really an answer. Why are you so private?”
“Why is everyone else not more private?”
I grin. “Is that another question?”
He shakes his head. “Do you have any idea how many people didn’t get a job at my or my brother’s company based solely on the things they’ve posted on Facebook and Twitter? And that’s a benign example. A government can do something much worse than not hire you. They can put you in jail, or place you on some list, or who knows what else. To me, the fact that millions of people share their most private moments with the world of their own free will is completely nuts. An ego trip gone horribly wrong.”
“Wow. Tell me how you really feel,” I say, mentally cataloguing what I’ve posted on my social media. Some of it I should probably take down posthaste.
He bites into a questionable morsel that proceeds to ooze something green and sticky. “As the saying goes: knowledge is power. I don’t like giving up my power.”
I reach to scratch my eyebrow, then recall its precarious nature and scratch my forehead instead. “I get what you’re saying. To me, though, it sounds a little paranoid.”
This time, I’m pretty sure it’s a piece of blood sausage that he puts into his mouth. Hopefully made with pig’s blood, but you never know.
“How about a thought experiment?” he says after the sausage is a goner. “I give you a scenario, and you tell me how it makes you feel.”
“Sure.” I bite into a fry.
“You met with Sandra today.” This is said as a statement, not a question.
“Yeah, I did. So what?”
He leans forward. “How about if I told you that I witnessed your whole conversation through the security camera in the meeting room?”
I frown. “I’d say that was a little creepy, but hey, it’s your company. Now if you said you peep into the bathrooms, that would be a different story.”
“I’m not a perv.” As though to contradict his statement, he sticks his fork into something fermented—with a sticky, slimy texture that no food should ever have. “But now you’re beginning to get what I’m saying. That feeling you’d have if someone did put a camera into your bathroom is what I’m talking about.” Face tightening, he adds, “It’s particularly developed with me, and for a good reason.”
