We get in line, and he lets me go first—point for him being gentlemanly—and I order my typical burrito bowl with chicken, black beans, and fajita veggies. And since lover boy is paying, I have them pile the guac on. Huxley sweeps in behind me with a steak burrito, pinto beans, no rice and tons of lettuce and salsa. No guac. Does he not like guac or is he not willing to pay the extra money? A question for the ages.
When we get to the register, he grabs a beer for both of us, as well as chips and salsa, and then pays. When I see him pull out his Amex Black Card to swipe it, my anxiety over him claiming he’s rich no longer exists. Uh, yeah . . . the man wasn’t lying about being rich. Good to know.
With food and drinks in hand, Huxley finds a high-top table near the window that offers us enough privacy from the rest of the restaurant that I feel comfortable enough to have the type of conversation we’re about to have.
Once we’re seated, I say, “From the lack of guac on your burrito, I’m going to assume you don’t like it very much.”
He shakes his head. “Too slimy. Can’t handle the texture of it.”
“Are you a California native?”
He nods. “Yup, born in Santa Monica.”
“Fascinating,” I say, giving him a smooth once-over. “I don’t think I’ve ever found a native Californian who doesn’t like guacamole.”
“I’m an anomaly. My brothers think I’m weird, so you’re not alone in the opinion you probably have about me.”
“I don’t think you’re weird, just . . . interesting. You also didn’t get rice.”
“Not a big rice fan.” He glances at me while he unwraps his burrito. “Care to analyze anything else about my order?”
“You got beer instead of a soda. You’re either extremely nervous or you’re the type of person who has no shame in ordering an alcoholic beverage at a quick-serve restaurant.”
“I don’t know what it feels like to be nervous,” he says in such a straight, monotone voice that I actually believe him. I’m not sure he knows that emotion based on that quick and abrupt answer. “I also don’t carry around shame. It’s a waste of my mental energy.”
I pick up my fork and move it around my burrito bowl as he takes his first bite. “Ahh, I see how you are.”
He finishes chewing and swallows, following up with a swipe of his napkin across his mouth before he asks, “Oh, you do? Please, educate me on myself.”
“You’re one of those power men.”
“Power men?” he asks, brow raised.
“You know, the ones you read about, the successful ones that have a crazy regimen. They read a self-help book a week, work out every day, are brutal in the boardroom, and drink so much water that their bladder doesn’t know what yellow pee is.”
His burrito is halfway to his mouth as he says, “Takes me a week and a half to get through a self-help book when a new season of The Challenge comes out.”
Then he takes a bite of his burrito, and honestly, from the lack of facial expressions, I can’t tell if he’s being serious or not. Might as well test his knowledge.
“You watch The Challenge?”
He nods slowly. “CT for life.”
Okay, okay, don’t freak out.
Gah . . . but CT!
“He’s my dream man,” I say before I can stop myself. “Heavy Boston accent, troubled past, buff—even in his dad-bod era—and just a fine piece of ass. Love him so much. Is that why you like him?”
He wipes his mouth, and in a dry tone, he says, “Yes. Can’t get enough of that tight ass of his.”
Look at that, we have a funny man in our midst. I like that. Makes me feel comfortable.
“I knew you were an ass man.”
“How do you figure?”
“You just have that type of intense glare in your eyes. Screams ass man.”
“Wasn’t aware you could tell by someone’s glare that they’re an ass man,” he says while lifting his beer to his lips.
“Easily.”
“Funny.” He swallows some more beer, sets it down, and says, “Because asses are sexy and all, but I’m all about the neck.”
“The neck?” I ask, my loaded fork halfway to my mouth. “You, uh, you like to choke people?”
“No, but there’s something so sexy, so possessive, about being able to hold your girl at the nape of her neck.”
“Possessive, are we?” I ask, trying to feel this man out.
“I prefer to claim what’s mine.”
“Interesting. If that’s the case, why are you looking for a fake fiancée? Claiming what’s yours seems like an intense reaction, something you wouldn’t take lightly.”
“I don’t take it lightly. It’s why I haven’t been able to find the right person, because I take my dating life, or lack thereof, seriously. I’m not going to waste my time on someone if I don’t feel an innate demand in my body to claim them.”
“I guess that makes sense.” I study him. “So, then, why the fake fiancée? I told you I need someone to pretend to be my boyfriend for a reunion. What’s your reasoning?”
“We’ll get to that,” he says. “I want to know more about you first. I need to be comfortable with you before I tell you what I need.”
“Okay, as long as I can ask you questions, too.”
“A question for a question. That work for you?”
Easy to compromise—I’m surprised. He doesn’t necessarily give off that vibe, especially with all the possessive talk. I’m just going to make it known, that detail about him is a total turn-on. Not that I’m looking to actually date this guy or anything.
“That works for me. You ask first.”
“What do you do?” He takes a large bite of his burrito, and for being a man of “class,” he’s really munching down on that burrito.
“Currently in between jobs—”
“So, unemployed,” he cuts in, and I grow defensive.
“Not by my choice.”
“So, you were fired?” He lifts his brow in question.
I puff up my chest. “As a matter of fact, I was fired, and not because I wasn’t doing my job, but because my idiot boss believes she can get someone else to do my job for less pay.” With a sinister smile, I say, “I hope her business burns up in flames.”
He lets out a low chuckle. “Seems like poor management to me.”
“You could say that. My boss was one of my best friends growing up. A volatile friendship, very toxic. I could love her and hate her all in the span of one minute. She told me my firing wasn’t personal, and then the next day, she asked if I’d help her with our high school reunion she’s planning, you know, now that I have time on my hands.”
He winces. “Brutal.”
“Yes. So, she’s Satan’s daughter.”
“Seems like she did you a favor.”
I shake my head. “She screwed me over.” I smile. “But we can talk about that later. My turn to ask a question. What do you do?”
“Real estate,” he answers simply.
“That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?”
He sips from his beer and then says, “Sorry, don’t have a tragic story to tell you about losing my job.”
“Are you mocking me?”
He levels with me, his eyes connecting directly with mine. “I’m trying to get you to agree to be my fake fiancée. Do you really think I’d mock you?”
“I guess not.”
“Next question. Are you attached to anyone romantically in any way?” he asks.
“If I were, I wouldn’t be trying to find someone to take to the reunion, now would I?” I take another bite of my burrito bowl and wish I wasn’t trying to be all dainty around this guy, because the chicken is on fire today and I want to shovel it in my mouth.
“So that’s a no. I need to hear you say it.”
What a formal fuck. “That’s a no. I’m not romantically involved with anyone.” I motion to my body and say in the voice of the old lady from Titanic, “It’s been eighty-four years since these breasts have been touched.”
He smirks and nods. “Good.”
“What about you?” I ask. “Seems like a stupid question since you’re looking for a fake fiancée, but who knows. Maybe you got yourself involved in some sort of drug deal gone sideways and you need a fake fiancée to get you out of the situation instead of throwing your wife to the wolves, so you find an innocent walker in the neighborhood to use as a decoy. Lure her in with promises of extra guac and good-smelling cologne.”
Seeming amused, he wipes his mouth and leans back in his chair before tossing his napkin on the table. “I fear what else is going on in that head of yours.”