Alex shoots me a flat look. “What gave you that impression?”
I take another sip of my drink, feel the crisp alcohol slide down my throat. “You seemed about as thrilled to see him as my boss is after his expense touchbase with the COO.”
Alex smirks. “Well, the COO is a nightmare. Did you hear about his ex-wife? Benny was giving me the scoop last week.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
Alex rolls his eyes. It’s a gesture I’ve become distinctly familiar with, since he rolls his eyes at me a lot. “I dislike the subject.”
“Why do you dislike the subject?”
“Aside from the fact that he touched you inappropriately?”
“I’ve fared worse.” According to his alarmed expression, this doesn’t appease Alex. “Aside from that.”
He walks forward and leans against the rail, looking out at the river. I turn my head toward him as a drop of condensation from his beer bottle falls to the street, stories below. “He’s got history with my father. If you must know.”
This piques my interest. A CEO and a board chairman at odds with each other? “What kind of history?” I ask, too curious to play it cool.
Alex shakes his head, humming out a gentle laugh. “It’s hilarious you think I would just tell you that.”
A laugh slips out of me, too, escaping me against my will. It is hilarious that I thought he’d tell me that. We play nice at the office, but Alex isn’t naive, and I’ve never been any good at subtlety. He knows I’m not his biggest fan. Why would he tell me anything personal?
“That’s a first,” he murmurs, half smiling. Then adds, “That was a real laugh, too.”
I want to shove the sound back down my throat. “How do you know it was real?”
He leans in. Smelling like expensive cologne I’m probably allergic to and freshly laundered sheets. “I know it was real,” he says, “because I’ve never once been around you when your heart wasn’t pinned to your sleeve.”
Um …
What on earth is a girl supposed to say to that?
Nothing, apparently. Alex doesn’t give me enough time to string together words in rebuttal, but he also can’t hide the blush that creeps into his cheeks just seconds before he says, “So. How does it feel to be the internet’s latest dream girl?”
When I only continue to look at him dumbly—still reeling from the heart-on-my-sleeve comment—he adds, “What, didn’t you hear?”
Oh, I’d heard. After the “Healthed-Up Hot Chicken” video went live two days ago, I got eight hundred new Instagram followers overnight and half a dozen texts from people I used to know. It had felt fun at first, and then fake. Then fun again, and stressful, and back to fake.
“I’m nobody’s dream girl.” My voice comes out hollower than I mean it to. My mind flashes to my ex-boyfriend, then away before the familiar sting of memory settles onto my skin like a sunburn. “People can’t like me if they don’t really know me.”
Alex frowns. His eyebrows draw together, asking a question I can nearly hear: Who really knows you?
I could count the number of people on one hand. That’s the difference between us.
“Well.” He scratches at his jaw. “Unlike you, I have a pathological need to be liked.”
I snort. “Why is that?”
“If I had a therapist, I’m sure they’d have ideas.” His tone is dark and amused. Then, as if brushing past the admission, he shoots me a pointed look. “It’s why you’re so frustrating.”
“Because I don’t like you?”
“Yes,” he agrees. “Makes me bitter.”
“At least we’re in that together.”
He drains his beer and deposits it on a waist-high bar table in the middle of the balcony. “Hang on. Has something I’ve done made you bitter?”
“Oh, come on.” I wait. He waits. “Alex, you can’t be serious.”
“Rarely.” He smirks. “But that was a serious question.”
I consider him, wondering how to play this. If he wants it all out there, I’m game.
“Tell me what you’re doing here,” I demand, taking an educated guess at his answer.
He laughs softly, amused at a private joke. But then the expression vanishes, and he admits, “I’m sometimes invited to stuff like this.”
“Why?” I ask. It’s a dare.
He considers my dare, then turns to me. “I think you probably know why.”
“Maybe I want to hear you say it.”
My gaze never drops, and eventually Alex sighs in exasperation, glaring at the water. “I got invited to this event because my father has good seats. Not that I’ve ever been to a game with him. I’m pretty sure he mostly gives the tickets away to business partners, but the team’s probably hoping I’ll buy some of my own after tonight.”
This line of inquiry is going exactly the way I planned.
“Your father sounds rich and important,” I say, voice dripping with sarcasm. “What does he do for a living?”
Slowly Alex turns his head, eyes widening. “Oh. That’s what it is,” he murmurs. Very faintly, and more to himself than to me. He looks like he just decoded the Rosetta stone, and the fact that this cause-and-effect scenario is only now dawning on him makes my blood boil. “You hate the nepotism of it,” he says at last.
“Duh. Doesn’t everyone hate nepotism?”
He tilts his head back and forth. “Except the people who benefit from it.”
He’s smirking, but not smugly. Why do I feel like I’m missing the punch line of a joke Alex is keeping just out of reach?
He scratches at his neck. “I guess your reaction is fair.”
“You guess it’s fair?”
“I’m qualified for this job,” he defends, losing patience, but he gives away his unease by fidgeting with his shirt cuffs. “I spent the past two years working in Seoul for a digital media company that’s very similar to what Bite the Hand is trying to become. We grew that brand from the ground up, and the company is performing well.”
“Another family business?” I quip.
Alex pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re intolerable. I don’t know why I try.”
“Try? Alex, when have you ever had to try at anything?”
He whirls on me, caramel eyes roving hotly over my face. “You don’t know anything about me. You don’t have a clue.”
Maybe he’s right, but now that we’re finally having it out, I can’t find it in me to hold back. “I know that you’re well connected, well educated, well traveled—”
“Here I thought we were fighting.”
“And I know that for some reason, everybody loves you. God forbid I’m the one person who didn’t immediately warm to your presence, but please don’t delude yourself into thinking it wasn’t for lack of trying that hard.”
“Just because you’re as inviting as a porcupine doesn’t mean I should be villainized because I’m friendly,” he says. “Believe me, you’ve got the try-hard personality trait covered enough for both of us.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
His eyes gleam. “It means I’ve never seen anyone so committed to hating a person they hardly fucking know. No wonder you said you’re nobody’s dream girl.”
I flinch, stung, and take a step backward that’s more like a stumble.