Cowboy Baby Daddy

I may have forgotten to mention that torturing him a little was part of the game.

He takes it in stride, though.

“Well,” he says, “I can certainly understand that. These days, you can never be too careful. For all you know, I might be one of those corporate types who works for one of those evil investment firms.”

The statement probably wouldn’t have been near as amusing if I hadn’t just taken a sip of my drink. I cover my mouth and do my best to control my laughter long enough to swallow the liquid.

“Oh,” he says skeptically, “don’t tell me…”

“I’ve been an intern at a brokerage in town for a while now, and I just got hired on full-time at Claypool and Lee in Jersey.”

“Oh, God,” he says. “Not only do you work for those greed mongers, you’re actually moving to New Jersey? The humanity!”

“Sad to say we can’t all cook for a living,” I rejoin.

“I know, but can you imagine what a wonderful world that would be? Everyone makes a living making delicious food?”

“That would be insanely boring,” I tease.

I’m about to relent and agree to dinner, but he just keeps going.

“Oh well, I guess you all know what the pinch was like during the recession—oh wait, you’re the only people in the country that profited from it. Isn’t it weird how big businesses tell us that any kind of government aid is socialism, but those same companies are so quick to snatch any bailout money or tax breaks that come their way?”

“Yeah, we should probably stay away from politics,” I tell him.

His face goes a little red, and I can only hope it’s from the realization that he just equated what I do with organized crime. I might just end up going home alone tonight.

“I’m very sorry,” he says. “I was only joking.”

“Right,” I say, and turn back toward the bartender. “Could I get another tequila sunrise?”

I turn back toward this handsome, if a bit precocious rogue, wondering if he’s going to pick up the tab for that one as well.

He doesn’t.

“You know,” he says, “I had a roommate once who loved tequila sunrises, t

oo.”

Oh, watch your step.

“Yeah?” I ask. “She sounds utterly delightful.”

“Oh, she is,” he says. “I mean, she was.” He leans in close to me and says, “Do I go present or past tense there?”

“I really don’t care,” I whisper back.

For a man so evidently skilled at picking up women, he’s really putting on a lackluster performance. And I was so hoping to find out exactly what it is that he said to those women to get them to go home with him so quickly.

Then again, I don’t really want to be just another pickup to him.

I may have unwittingly placed us both in a quagmire.

We sit awkwardly a moment.

“You know,” he says, “I think I’m doing you a disservice here.”

“Are you, now?” I ask.