Beauty and the Billionaire

“What’s that?” he asks.

“The whole overconfident thing,” I tell him. “I was flirting with you before because I saw how much it bothered Jana when she saw you again, and sometimes that particular friend of mine just needs to be taken down a peg or two, but I’m not looking for some desperate slap and tickle with a juvenile walking phallus.”

“You’re kind of mean, you know that?” he asks, but he’s still smiling.

“You’re used to rejection, aren’t you?” I return.

“Very,” he says. “If I’m not being rejected in a public and humiliating way at least once a day, I feel like I’m not trying hard enough.”

“So it’s all about the sex for you then, huh?” I ask. I don’t know if he’s figured out that I’m not interested, but either way, toying with him is just too delicious.

“Not really,” he says. “I mean, I do enjoy me some—what’d you call it?—slap and tickle, as much as anyone, but that’s not what it’s all about for me.”

“Oh, and what’s it all about?” I ask. This should be entertaining.

“I don’t know,” he says. “A lot of people are worried about who they’re going to get to spend the night with them. I always thought mornings were more romantic.”

“Oh really?” I ask, not hiding my amusement.

“Really,” he says. “I think it’s much more a statement when someone wakes up and wants to spend their day with you than when someone just wants to spend the night, you know?”

“Wow,” I say. “So, did that punch to the face knock something loose or are you actually telling me you consider yourself a romantic?”

“I don’t see why I can’t be a romantic just because I happen to spend a good portion of my free time training to beat the crap out of people,” he says. “We all have hobbies.”

“Yeah, but your hobby tends to have a pretty big downside,” I tell him.

“Nothing’s more dangerous than always running away from things that scare you,” he says.

“Okay, I get that you’re trying to be all ‘charming, pithy guy’ right now and everything, and I will say, up until now you’ve been doing a pretty good job,” I start.

“But?” he asks.

“But this isn’t an infomercial,” I tell him. “You know why you never had a shot with me?”

“Why’s that?” he asks and nothing seems capable of getting that smile to stop returning to his face.

“Because you think it’s appropriate being bandaged up by the stranger-roommate of one of your ex chew toys,” I tell him.

“Ah, I’m a dog now,” he says.

I answer, “Just in the whole puppy-isn’t-housebroken-and-chews-holes-in-all-my-underwear—”

“Hot,” he interrupts.

“You’re too sarcastic for me,” I tell him. “That and I’m not unconvinced you’re a man-whore, and I don’t see that being a good move for me.”

“Well, that’s a shame,” he says and claps his hands together. “Now, do you think we’re ever going to get a refill on these breadsticks? We’ve been waiting ten minutes for that crap.”

“The service does seem exceptionally slow,” I respond.

He’s looking over my shoulder to try and spot our waiter, and I’m thinking this might not be better than suffering through Jana’s mom and the thick, dark cloud that follows her everywhere. Sure, it’s a dark cloud made up of pot smoke and patchouli oil, but a dark cloud it remains.

“You’re really giving up that easily?” I ask.

“Well, if you’re not interested, you’re not interested,” he answers. “If it’s all the same to you, though, I really am pretty hungry, so I’m going to stay and eat. You’re welcome to stay too, of course,” he adds. “I promise I won’t take it as some kind of encouragement of my high-risk lifestyle choices.”

I chuckle softly.