Judging Books
“Do you want a Coke or something?”
What I really wanted was a glass of wine, but I didn’t say so.
“Maybe just some water?”
“Sure.”
Ethan walked up three short, hardwood steps to the raised kitchen area and pulled a glass out of the cabinet. He filled it with ice and filtered water, grabbed a can of Coke out of the fridge, and brought them both back to the living area. He handed me my water, then plopped down on one of the bean bag chairs.
I eyed the comfortable-looking leather couch and then the floppy bean bag chair on the floor next to Ethan. I pulled a bit at the edge of my skirt and tried to figure out if there was any way I could possibly sit down without ripping the seam or falling right on my face.
“Oh, shit!” Ethan jumped up out of the chair, spilling the Coke in his hand all over the floor. He cursed again, put the can on a coaster on the coffee table, and ran out of the room. He was back in less than a minute, holding a bundle of clothes which he thrust at me. “They won’t fit right, but you’ll be able to sit better.”
I looked at the pair of turquoise yoga pants and a beige tank top that were just a little too big for me. They obviously weren’t Ethan’s.
“My mom’s,” he said. I could have sworn he had mind-reading abilities.
“Will she mind?”
“Um…no.” Ethan grabbed a towel from the kitchen and started cleaning the Coke off the carpet. “Both my parents are dead.”
“Oh, crap…Ethan, I’m sorry.” I reached one hand out towards him but wasn’t sure what I planned to do with it, so I dropped it back to my side.
“It’s okay,” he said with a shrug. “It’s been a couple of years. There’s a bathroom down the hall—second door on the left.”
“I’ll go change.”
When I came back in the more comfortable clothing, the Coke mess was cleaned up and both of our drinks were sitting on the coffee table. Ethan was rinsing out the towel in the kitchen sink. He looked over his shoulder at me and smiled.
“That looks a lot easier to get around in,” he said. He hopped down the three stairs and flopped back into the bean bag, motioning me to do the same. “Why do you wear that stuff anyway?”
“I’ll be working in the corporate world,” I said. “It’s what you wear.”
“What does that stuff have to do with your job? Couldn’t you do the job just as well in a pair of jeans?”
“I suppose so,” I responded. I had never really thought about it. It was just what people wore in corporate America. “But people are expecting a certain look. If you want to convince them you will take care of their investments, they have to see you as a professional.”
“Doesn’t Draganov Financial already have a good reputation?”
“Yes, very good. We’re a leader in the industry.”
“I thought so.” He smiled that half smile at me, and I was fairly certain I was going to end up staining the crotch of his Mom’s yoga pants if he kept doing that. “If you weren’t, I might have to pay attention to what was happening with my money, and I really don’t want to fuck around with all that shit.”
“You’re invested with us?”
“Us?” he questioned. “I thought you just interviewed there today. Did you get the job?”
It was my turn to blush scarlet.
“Well, you see—it was really an interview in name only.” I had no idea how I was going to explain this without sounding like an entitled bitch. “I already have the job. My father is Miles Draganov.”
I sat back and waited for the shift in attitude that always occurred. Sometimes I truly hated my family name. The people in this town seemed to think we needed to be treated like Rockefellers or something. I hated it. Dad loved it.
“Oh, I got it,” Ethan said. He tipped his soft drink can up and drained it. “Yeah, my dad did a lot of business with Draganov Financial. Most of the money’s still there. I don’t really pay much attention to it. All the bills are paid automatically for this place, and I only use the account directly to pay Frazier and shit. Sometimes I’ll use the credit card, like tonight, but not often.”
He shrugged, half-smiled, and blushed again.
“I guess I still owe you a story,” he said, waving his hand, indicating the penthouse apartment.