t you're really just like the others, aren't you?”
“The others as in – who?” he asked. “I'm confused.”
“Greg. Tommy,” I said. “The other assholes who frequent the club. Rich guys who were born on third base and think they hit a triple. Guys who think they're entitled to whatever they put their hands on.”
He shrugged and reached for his glass of water, sipping it slowly, his eyes never leaving mine.
“I'd like to think I'm not an asshole,” he said. “But, I guess it depends on who you ask. I gotta believe that Greg thinks I'm a pretty big asshole right about now. Tommy and Leon too.”
Our food came out, and I almost squealed with delight. Food, glorious food. I had a heaping plate of pancakes, eggs, and bacon in front of me. I was practically salivating as the waitress set the plate down on the table, my stomach growling even louder than before. Malcolm got a massive burger and fries, which seemed rather odd. Then again, it's not like this place served lobster or filet mignon – or whatever rich guys like him were used to eating.
I dug into the food, stuffing heaping fork after heaping fork it into my mouth and relishing every single bite. Malcolm munched on a fry, clearly amused by the pace in which I was eating. When I noticed him watching, I slowed it down, and even forced myself to take a rest between bites. Stuffing my face probably wasn't the best look.
“Sorry,” I said, wiping my mouth with my napkin. “I'm just starving tonight.”
“Don't apologize,” he said. “I like a girl who can eat. Too many women in Hollywood think they have to starve themselves to nothing but skin and bones in order to be attractive. But, when I take someone out to dinner, I want them to enjoy it. I want them to actually eat.”
Considering the fact that Malcolm was in ridiculously good shape, I couldn't imagine he ate very unhealthily all that often. His girlfriend, or rather his ex-girlfriend, was a typical thin model type. Tall and waify – so, I'd just assumed that was his preference. Maybe I'd been wrong.
Or maybe he was just trying to be nice and placate me. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, though.
“So, Malcolm, did you just feel like slumming it tonight or what?” I asked. “Why hang out with me like this?”
“Why not?” he shrugged.
“Because you're like a super-hot – err I mean, rich – guy,” I said. “And I'm, well, a cocktail waitress. No one important. Don't get me wrong, I'm thankful for dinner and all, but we don't exactly move in the same social or economic circles.”
He chuckled and finally took a bite from his burger, the juices dripping from his lips. Yes, I stared and licked my own lips, imagining what his might taste like. As if on command, Malcolm licked his lips, and even that movement was slow, seductive, and sexy. I felt a flutter in my belly, like the wings of a butterfly battering my insides, and a warmth down below took me by surprise.
I adjusted in my seat, trying to compose myself and ignore growing heat inside of me. I'm sure it was written all over my face though. I'm sure it was as obvious as a neon sign on my forehead or something, announcing that watching Malcolm Crane eat a cheeseburger was the epitome of sexiness.
I could only imagine what he'd look like eating something else,and my cheeks burned bright red at the thought.
“What?” he asked.
That crooked smile was back on his face and showcased a dimple in his cheek.
“Nothing – it's just –”
Think of something, Casey, I mentally demanded of myself. Say something that isn't stupid. Something that doesn't make you sound like a totally vapid bimbo.
“Well, it's just, I have no idea what to talk about with someone like you,” I said.
“Someone like me?” He cocked a thick, sandy brown eyebrow at me. “I'm not Tom Cruise or Brad Pitt or anything like that. I'm just a normal guy. What do you talk about with normal guys?”
Nah, you're hotter than both those men combined,I thought to myself. Instead, I shot him a look.
“Please, you? Normal?” I scoffed. “There's nothing about you that's even remotely normal.”
“Oh yeah?” he responded. “Well, what do you consider normal, Casey?”
I thought about that for a moment, and finally said, “Normal people have problems,” I said. “Not like – what car I'm going to drive today? Or, what exotic location I'm going to visit next? Like real problems. Things like, how am I going to pay the rent this month? Or, what the hell am I going to do now that I lost my job?”
“Is that what you’re worried about, how you’re going to pay your rent?” he asked, looking at me thoughtfully.
“You don’t think I can take care of myself?” I challenged.
He didn't answer me. Wisely. He probably knew there wasn't a right answer to that question that wasn't going to piss me off. He was obviously, a smart man. Malcolm seemed to read me better than other people. He knew how to avoid getting under my skin. Which meant, I was starting to like him.