But Damien only smirks. And, yeah, he turns it on just long enough for me to jump.
I lick my lips and look around, certain everyone has not only seen me, but knows what we’re doing. But there’s really no one in our line of sight, and none of the staff are looking our way.
I swallow and shift a bit in the seat. I try to focus on my menu, but it’s hard, because any moment Damien might turn that thing on, and I’m both dreading it and anticipating it.
“You’re very easy to read, Ms. Fairchild.”
I scowl at him and focus on my current conundrum of deciding between a martini and a bourbon, straight up.
The bourbon wins. There’s really no contest.
The waitress returns with our drinks and takes our dinner orders—we’re both having steak—then leaves us in our little corner.
“You’re torturing me, you know,” I say.
Damien laughs and holds up his hands as if in self-defense. “Hey, I’m not doing anything.”
“Hmmm.”
“Anticipation is the better part of pleasure,” he says.
“Anticipation is driving me crazy,” I retort.
He reaches across the table for my hand, stroking his thumb over mine. “Tell me about the job. What does Bruce have planned for you?”
I eye him suspiciously. “You really don’t know?”
He laughs. “I really don’t.”
I launch greedily into the topic, giving him a rundown of the parameters of my new job. “Bruce seems really cool,” I add. “I think I’ll learn a lot from him.”
“I’m sure you will, but I still don’t understand why you don’t just dive in and work for yourself. You said you have a product in mind to develop, right?”
“I do,” I admit. “Honestly, I think I’m a little scared. I spent five years in school learning all the technical stuff. I trust myself with the science and the engineering. But the business end …” I trail off with a shrug. “I feel like there should have been a class on how to find investors or how to raise capital or something.” I wave my hand, because I’m sure I sound like a total loser. “I just don’t want to jump in before I feel competent. I’m afraid if I do all your money will just slip through my fingers.”
“It’s your money,” he says. “Or it will be soon. But if you need help, all you have to do is ask. I’ve gotten pretty good at this stuff,” he adds with a grin.
“Damien, please. I just—I just feel like I need to be the one who does this. On my own, you know?”
“No one survives in business going entirely on their own.”
“Damien …”
“Fine,” he concedes. “But let me give you some advice. If you’re looking to make a splash in the tech field, the time is now. I don’t know what ideas you’re developing, but I promise that you aren’t the only one. Screw around too long, and someone will hit the market first.”
“Like what happened to Carl.”
“Exactly.” He squeezes my hand. “Will you tell me your idea? I’m curious.”
I hesitate only a second. I don’t want to work for or with Damien, but I do value his opinion. And I’m proud of my idea and want to share it with this man who now fills my world.
“I have several smartphone apps already out there, and they’ll be part of the company, of course. But the marquee product will be a cross-platform note-sharing system for use on the Web.”
“I’m intrigued. Explain.”
I do, roughing out my idea of a web-based software that allows users to leave virtual sticky notes on webpages that their friends and colleagues can see when they access the same website. “That’s just the most obvious use. There are all sorts of permutations. But I think it has real potential.”
“So do I,” he says. “When you’re ready, I’ll help.”