“Seemed like the least I could do for a woman who gave up her whole life to take care of me,” he said, shrugging. “Anyone who thinks otherwise is even more of an asshole than me.”
She shook her head. “Wow.”
“She likes it here, especially the winters. We never had much snow in Georgia.”
“What part?” she asked, watching him as he pulled into the parking garage closest to Fado Irish Pub.
“Rochester.”
She winced.
“Yeah, not exactly the best area.”
That rock hit his stomach every time he remembered his childhood home. It had been a hard life, and they’d survived. He’d made sure his mom never had to worry about money again.
“Every area is nice in its own way,” she said, but she was being kind.
“Not where we lived.” He shook his head.
“Let me guess. Now, you live near your mom in a penthouse?”
He turned left, heading toward a parking garage. Some asshole in a red Corvette cut him off, so he slammed his foot on the brake. “Maaaybe.”
Laughing, she shook her head. She did that a lot when it came to him. He liked it. “With a fireplace, and a loft, and really fancy woodwork?”
“Are you spying on me?”
“I don’t need to,” she argued, wagging a finger at him. “You’re so predictable.”
“I’m not—”
“Uh-uh.” She wagged the finger even more. “Don’t even try to deny it. You probably wake up, hit the gym, shower, go to work, skip lunch, eat dinner over your desk, leave after eight, go home, work a little more, and hit the sheets by eleven every night during the week.”
Well, damn.
“And the weekends?” he asked drily.
“You find a pretty girl, take her out, woo her with your fancy car and money, bring her back, turn on your fireplace, and take her to bed.”
Again. Not far off. He rolled down the window, took a parking ticket, and pulled forward. “And after I get her in bed?”
“Then…” She swallowed. “Then when you’re finished with her, you tell her you should do some more work, and she leaves—while giving you her number, which you’ll never use—and you sleep in your bed, alone. Always alone.”
Well, hell. She was right.
Somewhere between trying to make a name for himself and trying to succeed, he’d become something worse than an asshole—a predictable asshole. Worse than that, he’d forgotten how to have fun. He did the same exact thing, every damn day, on a perfect schedule, and he never deviated from the pattern.
When did he become so goddamn boring?
Chapter Seven
Going home
with Taylor Jennings was a horrible idea. The worst. And yet, here she was, a few hours later, following through on the impulsive urge to make the most of this date. He pulled into a parking spot, his car much more at home here among the other Jaguars, Alfa Romeos, and Bentleys than it had in her parking lot with the Hondas and Toyotas.
It had been his suggestion to continue their date at his place because the contract said nothing about it ending if they went back to his place. So here they were.
Now what?