If the Sun Never Sets (If Love 2)

“Yeah. My family has a NetJet membership,” he bragged, naming a private jet company that offered leases for the country club crowd.

“What’s the most interesting place you’ve visited?”

“Easy. Ibiza.”

Farrah’s brow furrowed. “Ibiza?”

“In Spain. Españaaaaa.” Ken dragged out the last “a.”

“I know where Ibiza is.” She fought the urge to “accidentally” spill her wine all over his precious Rolex, which glinted obnoxiously beneath the lights.

Farrah had gone home to shower and change after meeting Blake at Central Park and, thanks to subway delays, arrived late for her date. Ken had greeted her by telling her she was exactly seven minutes late, according to his “$7,500 state-of-the-art Rolex, which is never wrong” but that he forgave her because she had “nice legs.”

She should’ve walked away right then and there, but she gave him the benefit of the doubt for Olivia’s sake.

Liv, you’re a dead woman.

“Well, the nightlife there is wild.” Ken chuckled like he was thinking about things too naughty to say in public. “I had my first orgy there.”

Guess they weren’t too naughty to say in public.

“Great.” Farrah forced a smile. How the hell was she supposed to respond to that? “Have you been to, um, other places? Ones without orgies?”

“Eh.” Ken shrugged. “London, Paris, Rome. The usual.”

“Anywhere outside Europe?”

“Nah. Where else would I go?”

Jesus. How did this guy get into private equity? Farrah thought the industry was for smart people. “I don’t know, maybe one of the other continents,” she said, unable to hide her sarcasm. “Asia, Africa…”

“Yeah, right. I don’t want malaria, and Asia has weird food. If I wanted to eat crickets—ow!”

“I am so sorry.” Farrah wasn’t sorry at all. “Did I step on your foot?”

If only she’d worn her four-inch stilettos instead of her three-inch ones. That would’ve made her stomp more painful.

“Yes,” Ken groaned.

“My bad.”

Farrah gulped another mouthful of wine. This was what she got for caving to a blind date in an attempt to battle her attraction to Blake. It’d backfired. Immensely. Because Ken made Blake look like the Boy Scout love child of Mother Teresa and Gandhi.

The waiter arrived with their entrees: veal medallions sautéed in lemon and capers for Ken, pappardelle al ragu for Farrah. Her mouth watered at the smell, even as her stomach churned at the thought of sitting through another course with King Douche over there.

Ken poked at his veal. “Is this medium rare?” he demanded. “I only eat veal that’s medium rare.”

“Yes sir, it’s medium rare, as you requested.” The waiter wore a professional smile, but the flicker of annoyance in his eyes showed he was dying to spit in Ken’s food.

Farrah hoped he already had.

“Good. If it isn’t, I’ll be very upset. You can leave now.” Ken shooed him away. Actually shooed him away.

That was the last straw.

Farrah’s face burned with secondhand mortification. She’d never seen such atrocious behavior in real life. The way people treated service workers said a lot about them as a human being, and she’d seen all she needed to see tonight.

“You’re an asshole.”