He plunks himself on the edge of the neatly made bed and takes a sip of champagne, patting the spot next to him.
“Bobby,” I say firmly. “I really should go.” In demonstration of my intentions, I place my glass on the windowsill.
“Oh, don’t put it there,” he cries. “It will leave a ring.”
I pick up the glass. “I’ll put it back in the kitchen, then.”
“But you can’t go,” he clucks. “We haven’t finished talking about your play.”
I roll my eyes, but I don’t want to completely offend him. I figure I’ll sit next to him for a moment and then leave.
I perch gingerly on the side of the bed, as far away from him as possible. “About the play—”
“Yes, about the play,” he agrees. “What made you want to write it?”
“Well, I . . .” I fumble for the words but I take too l
ong and Bobby becomes impatient.
“Hand me that photograph, will you?” And before I can protest, he’s scooted next to me and is pointing at the picture with a manicured finger. “My wife,” he says, followed by a giggle. “Or should I say my ex-wife?”
“You were married?” I ask as politely as possible, given those alarm bells are now clanging away like a bell tower.
“For two years. Annalise was her name. She’s French, you see?”
“Uh-huh.” I peer more closely at the image. Annalise is one of those beauties who looks absolutely insane, with a ridiculous pouty mouth and wild, scorching black eyes.
“You remind me of her.” Bobby puts his hand on my leg.
I unceremoniously remove it. “I don’t look a thing like her.”
“Oh, but you do. To me,” he murmurs. And then, in hideous slow motion, he purses his lips and pushes his face toward mine for a kiss.
I quickly turn away and wrestle free from his grasping fingers. Ugh. What kind of man gets manicures anyway?
“Bobby!” I pick up my glass from the floor and start out of the room.
He follows me into the kitchen, wagging his tail like a chastened puppy. “Don’t go,” he pleads. “There’s nearly a whole bottle of champagne left. You can’t expect me to drink it myself. Besides, it doesn’t keep.”
The kitchen is tiny, and Bobby has stationed himself in the doorway, blocking my exit.
“I have a boyfriend,” I say fiercely.
“He doesn’t have to know.”
I’m about to flee, when he changes his tack from sly to hurt. “Really, Carrie. It’s going to be very hard to work together if I think you don’t like me.”
He has to be kidding. But maybe Samantha was right. Doing business with men is tricky. If I reject Bobby, is he going to cancel my play reading? I swallow and try to summon a smile. “I do like you, Bobby. But I have a boyfriend,” I repeat, figuring the emphasis of this fact is probably my best tactic.
“Who?” he demands.
“Bernard Singer.”
Bobby breaks into a glass-shattering peal. “Him?” He moves closer and tries to take my hand. “He’s too old for you.”
I shake my head in wonder.
The momentary lull gives Bobby another chance to attack. He wraps his arms around my neck and attempts to mouth me again.