The waiter returns and asks if we’d like our wine and gasoline-scotch refreshed. We both decline, but I ask for more coffee. The waiter seems slightly annoyed that we’re still here, occupying the table, but scuttles off to comply.
“Maybe we should go,” I say, watching the bustling waiter. My bluff should be obvious because I just asked for more coffee, but Brandon doesn’t seem to see it. Good. Because I’d like to keep pretending I don’t want him, and maybe he’ll do me the courtesy of pretending he doesn’t want me.
This might be a mistake waiting to happen. I don’t think either of us is thinking clearly, but we’re definitely not drunk. It’s the perfect amount of inhibition, just right like Goldilocks’s porridge.
“I could call you a cab,” he says.
Oh. Right. I forgot that Bridget, in order to handle her “emergency,” took his car.
“Sounds like a pain.”
“Maybe an Uber,” he suggests.
“Also sounds like a pain,” I say.
And now I’m having to backtrack. Now I’m clearly the one keeping us here, given the way I’m rebutting all departure options. But he is too, and has been from the start; we could easily have taken our food to go and called two separate cabs (or Uber cars) straightaway. I’m not sure what kept us eating after Dad’s departure. Maybe it was a sense of obligation to get our money’s worth on my father’s generosity. Or maybe it was something else — something that held our silence long enough for a few glasses of liquid courage to loosen our tongues.
“Okay,” he says, that smile changing on his face. “I have an idea.”
Brandon raises his hand. The waiter, watching us, comes over. He has the coffee pot — a froufrou French press thingy — but Brandon puts his hand over my cup before the man can pour.
“We’ll take the check. Never mind the coffee.”
“And never mind the Bollocks either,” I say.
Brandon gives me a look as the waiter leaves. There’s a heavy moment between us.
Okay, maybe two and a half large glasses of wine is too much for a seldom-drinking girl like me. And consequently, maybe I shouldn’t play along with whatever Brandon has in mind.
But I’m young. It’s still early. And I find myself wanting to play.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Brandon
BRIDGET KNOWS BETTER THAN TO text me again. Her interference in my life and livelihood, this time, is unforgivably past the line. Not only did she maroon me at the table and steal my truck, she also duped Mason with what I presume was a decoy message left by one of her friends. She disturbed the dinner at which I might have received my promotion, all because of some misguided impression that I like this girl and need a shove for my own good.
I’m teetering on whether or not to strike back at Bridget. Only the fact that I’m actually not mad keeps me from hurling the first stone.
I get up from the table, knowing I should use my phone to get a couple of Uber cars sent this way: one for me and another for Riley. She needs to get home, and I should brush up on some stuff before our 7 a.m. meeting tomorrow. The meeting is surely the final test. If I impress the investors — who will be surprised when Mason approaches them tonight bearing Bridget’s manufactured bad news — then I’ll be home free. At that point, nothing could stop me from getting the vice presidency and everything I want out of life.
Nothing except for something catastrophic that makes Mason change his mind about me.
I’d have to … I don’t know … sleep with his daughter or something.
The thought occurs to me, but I laugh it off without letting the humor touch my lips. Because the idea of sleeping with Mason’s daughter, once whispered inside me, is delicious but absurd. I’d never do something so stupid. At the same time, I have to admit that she’s impossible not to look at.
She’s not my type. I wasn’t lying about that. She’s too bubbly. Too perky. Too full of sunshine and seeming naiveté. Doesn’t matter that she does krav maga. Doesn’t matter that she’s into (and I verified this on my phone when I ran to the bathroom) a lot of the same music as me. Doesn’t matter that the sunshine and naiveté, based on what LiveLyfe has to say, is blended with something darkly intriguing. She lists Salvador Dali as an interest. She’s liked a bunch of Tarantino films. I’d have imagined her as someone who likes roller skating, wine coolers, and … little else. But no. She was in a Young Entrepreneurs club. Looks like she even won an award, or a contest, or something.
But now, because that’s all a bit too obtuse to generate this warmth I feel inside watching her, my mind wants to focus it into physical stuff. Her body is too small for me, but suddenly it feels like the thing that’s been missing from my bed. Her hair isn’t just pretty; now it seems elegant. The way she walks isn’t just sexy. To me, with all these confused thoughts running rampant through my mind, even her gently swaying rear is fascinating.
Even the joke — the certainty that I’d never sleep with this girl if she’d let me, if she’d beg me — forces my heart to beat harder. It makes my face flush, shortens my breath, and causes my words to consider a stutter. It makes thoughts run through my mind — all sorts of do not images that nonetheless make me hard. Everything my brain carefully outlines as forbidden and stupid and of-course-you-can’t-do-that, another part of me watches with a salivating tongue.
I’m thinking this as I hand the house jacket back to the maître d’, careful to slip Mason’s credit card into my pants pocket.
I’m thinking it as we exit the restaurant, with me in the lead … lagging back to open doors so I can watch the way she moves and hope she’ll accidentally brush against me as she passes.
I’m thinking all of this as we step into the cool night. If I were still wearing a jacket, I’d offer it to her for the short walk. It’s not that I think she’s cold. I want to give her something for a reason that feels primal. I want to protect her whether she wants protection or not. Even those wants feel wrong, but I allow them to happen.
Riley stands outside the restaurant’s entrance, three feet from me, mostly looking out at the lights of Old Town, half-turned. Her little red dress is modest enough, but still I can only think of how it’s pressed tight against her naked skin. I don’t even think she’s wearing a bra because I can’t see lines. Her hand is just a bit away from her body, and it’s as if she wants me to take it. But in this little farce, we’re two people marooned together, nothing more. I wouldn’t take Mason’s hand, so of course I wouldn’t take hers.
“Where to?” she asks.
I nod forward and walk, not yet indicating our destination. She follows a half step behind then catches up. She’s on the roadside, so I switch around so she’s nearer to the buildings. Putting myself between a woman and the road is either chivalrous or chauvinistic, and I’m not sure which applies. I guess it depends on the woman. I look over to see, but really I want to watch her for the seconds it takes to notice my stare.
This is a mistake.
Or is it? We’re killing some time together. No big deal.
But I can tell, watching my own responses as if from the outside, that this is what I’d do if I wanted to take a girl home. If Riley were a date, I’d prolong our evening, play to our mutual interests. I’d work hard to find common ground while not being too analytical about it all. I’d try to read her cues, like I’m reading them now. I’d banter. I’d see where things went.