“This isn’t just a game, Lottie. This is an opportunity to seize, to jump to the next chapter in your life, to level up, and if you’re just going to fuck around—”
“What the hell makes you think I’m fucking around?” I spread my arms wide. “I’m standing here in a dress you want me to wear, and some man is going to come here and move my boxes to your house, at your request. I’m going to attend a dinner tonight that, frankly, I’m terrified of attending, just for the mere fact that if I slip up, if I say something wrong, then I fuck everything up for you. And for some odd reason, I don’t want to do that.” I close the distance between us and poke him in the chest. “So don’t accuse me of fucking around. Do you understand me?”
A munching sound fills the silence, and at the same time, Huxley and I both turn toward Kelsey, who has a container of lo mein in hand, chopsticks in the other. She’s midbite when she smiles at us and says, “Oh, sorry . . . just enjoying the show. Lo mein?” She offers the canister.
Annoyed, I spin on my heel and return to the bathroom, where I disrobe once again, but this time, I sit, half naked, on the covered toilet.
The nerve of that man. It really is time to read that contract.
The air conditioner in the car is doing nothing for the burning inferno that’s ripping through my body.
I know this is business, I’m not looking for anything other than a business transaction, but would it have killed the man to at least acknowledge the lengths I went to, to curl my long hair? Granted, he asked me to curl it and demanded I go with a natural look with my makeup, but a nod of approval would be nice.
Do you think I got one?
When I stepped out of the bathroom—looking damn fine, mind you—he said nothing, other than “Let’s get moving.”
Kelsey gave me a hug of encouragement before I left and told me to call her if I needed to come back to her apartment. From the anxious look on her face as we were trying to figure out what to do with all the boxes, I’m going to assume the invitation is an empty one.
Huxley drives the car into a quiet street and pulls up next to a large white house that resembles the house from The Fresh Prince of Bel Air, with the grandiose pillars and large, dangling light fixture.
I reach for the car door handle, but he asks, “Where do you think you’re going?”
I look over my shoulder at him. “I don’t know, arriving obnoxiously early to a dinner date?” I point to the clock. “Honestly, who shows up an hour early? Is that a rich thing us peasants are unaware of?”
“Cutting the snark out of your tone would be helpful.”
“Cutting the asshole out of yours would cut the snark out of mine, so . . . the ball is in your court, Huxley.”
The animosity between us seems to be strong, and I can’t quite pinpoint when it happened. Somewhere around the time he came to Kelsey’s apartment and demanded I try on a dress. Whenever it was, it’s now filtered into the vibe between us.
The tension is fierce, that’s for sure.
His jaw clenches and he carefully turns toward me, his large frame adjusting to the compact space of the car. “This isn’t their house. Dave lives down the road more. I figured, for your benefit, we could talk through some of the questions you texted me, but if you want to show up early, looking like a dysfunctional couple, then, sure, let’s do that.”
I point my finger at him. “That’s not cutting out the asshole tone.”
“I’ll cut it out with the asshole tone when you take this seriously.”
“I am taking this seriously,” I yell at him. I flip my hair in his direction. “Do you realize the kind of effort it takes to curl this hair? I rarely do it, but while you were enjoying lo mein with my sister, I was sweating like a beast in the bathroom, trying to make myself presentable enough to be on your arm. I’m sorry I’m not Page Six material, but you chose me to help, so deal with what you got.”
His eyes remain stern, his facial expression stoic, and for a second, I’ve an urge to poke his face, to see if he’s frozen without me knowing it. But he drops his eyes to his phone and grabs it from the console. He flips through it and says, “You want to know how we met.”
So, we’re not going to address how long it took me to do my hair? Okay, just making sure that’s the case. Insert eye roll here.
“It might be helpful, because I’m sure it’s going to be asked. Are we just going with the whole ‘ran into him on the sidewalk’ story? Because, although lacking in luster, it’s an easy one to tell, but in my version, you’re a dick. Let me guess, I’m a shrew in yours?”
“Close,” he mutters and then says, “We met in Georgia.”
“Georgia?” I ask in a shrill voice. “Why the hell did we meet in Georgia? I’ve never even been there.”
“You haven’t?” he asks, as if he can’t comprehend such a preposterous idea.
“It’s not as though I’m a Californian who’s never been to Disneyland. I just haven’t happened to fly across the United States to randomly visit Georgia, when Nevada is the furthest east I’ve been.”
“How is that possible?”
“Not all of us can drop everything and fly somewhere on a whim, Huxley. Also . . . you’re old. You’ve had more time to explore.”
His lips twist to the side. “Research me?”
I glance down at my nails, examining the wonderful job I did while painting them earlier. Matte white, in case you were wondering. Totally hopping on the trend, and I’m loving it. “Thought it would be helpful. Didn’t expect to see you were a cradle robber. Seven years difference really is quite up there.”
“I have associates who are married to women twenty-five years their junior. Seven years is nothing.”
“Twenty-five years? Jesus, they could be their father.”
“Why do you assume it’s a man?” he asks.
“Well . . . I don’t know,” I say, thinking that he’s right. “Men, I just assume, like perky things.”
“And older women like stamina in the bedroom.”
Yeah, I mean, I wouldn’t turn down stamina either. “So, they’re women? A bunch of cougars.”
“They’re actually men.”
I toss my hands in the air. “Jesus Christ. What was the point of all of that?”
“To educate you to never make assumptions, especially in business. It could bite you in the ass.”
I exhale sharply. “Dear Jesus, please help me through this nightmare predicament I put myself in.” After a few moments of collecting myself, I sit back up and smile at him. “So, sweetie, please tell me how we met in Georgia.”
“Don’t call me sweetie, I don’t like that. If you must have an endearing name for me, you may call me Hux.”
“Inventive.” I give him a thumbs up.
“I told Dave my grandma lives in Georgia. Peachtree City, to be exact. You grew up just north of there.”
“Grew up?” I ask in shock. “How in the hell am I supposed to talk about growing up in a state I’ve never been to before? Can’t we just go with the sidewalk story? Why involve a different state? I don’t even have a southern accent.”
“Because I already told them my grandma introduced us while we were visiting in Georgia.”
I fold my arms. “Well, that was idiotic.”
“The interaction was unhinged from the beginning. We can make up for it, though, and say that you were visiting Georgia, family and whatnot. You moved to California when you were ten. It’ll help with the no-accent thing, and then you can also be more familiar with California. But we were both visiting family when my grandma introduced us. She’s best friends with your grandma Charlotte, and they thought it would be ideal since we both live in Los Angeles and were both visiting them at the same time.”
I nod. “Okay, that could work. What happened when we met? Were you taken aback by my beauty?”
“Yes,” he says, his eyes not straying from mine. “I couldn’t stop thinking about how captivating your eyes were.”
Hmm . . . that’s the second time he’s mentioned my eyes. I’m beginning to think the demanding asshole might actually think they’re pretty.
Not that I care.
But, you know, never hurts to know you have a pretty set of peepers.