Chapter 3
The waiter at Saffron stops by the table and refills our wine. I thank him, and my date, Kiera, smiles at him. The waiter has no idea just how thankful I am for him. This date has been awful. Worse since I hadn’t wanted to come out tonight, to begin with.
Mick, an old friend from college currently living in my apartment, set this one up. He’s a photographer and recently did a shoot, and Kiera was on the set. So he thought we’d hit it off. Once he told Kiera who I was, she was apparently so excited about the prospect that I couldn’t say no.
The problem is it’s so easy to tell when women want to be with me for my position. I was born and raised in New York, and because my father founded Kapino Homes, I’ve grown up in the public eye. Of course, it has its ups, but one of the major downsides is never fully knowing what someone’s motives are when they meet you. Some people want to be friends, and others want to use your name to push their careers as influencers.
Kiera seems nice, but I can tell she is just looking for brand deals.
She leans forward over the table, sticking her legs out to play footsie with me. I smile and pull myself away from her without making it too obvious. Neither of us says anything for a few moments. Finally, she takes to staring at me, fluttering her eyelashes.
My cell phone vibrates, and for the first time, I hope it’s something important so I can have a good excuse to leave. But it turns out to be just a text from my father asking me to meet him in the morning.
“Excuse me for a moment. I just need to check on something business related,” I say, standing up and walking outside the restaurant.
I stand outside and pretend to dial.
I even pretend to converse to make the whole thing look realistic. I fumble around with different pleasantries for a minute and pretend to hang up the phone.
“I hate to have to do this,” I say to her when I reach the table. “But I have an emergency at the office I need to take care of.”
“Duty calls, I understand.”
We say our goodbyes, and I call a cab to take me home. When I get in, Mick is in the kitchen with his photography rig set up, taking pictures of an exotic cat with an Akoya pearl necklace, music blaring over his phone.
“How was it?” he yells when he sees me, pausing the screeching music.
“I don’t think I’m going to be seeing her again,” I reply, sitting on one of my barstools near him.
Mick is still busy photographing the cat and kneeling to capture it from different angles.
“Not your type?” He asks between captures.
“I just don’t think we’re looking for the same thing,” I say, dancing around the real reason I don’t want to see her.
“Dude, you’re way too picky,” he says while I shake my head and laugh. “Look at your track record.”
I laugh again. “Record? What record?”
“When was the last time you had a relationship lasting more than a month?”
“I’m not picky,” I say in my defense. “It’s not like I don’t want a relationship. It just doesn’t work out for me. Every woman I date sits there like I’m their prey. I feel like…like they want to get something from me. They don’t care about who I am. And maybe I want a real relationship, someone to have a real conversation with, someone who loves me for me. So that’s not being picky.”
“Hate to break it to you, but you’re frightened by your past and paranoid. You think everyone is just using you,” he says, setting his camera down and sitting across from me.
I sigh and stare at him. He’s right, and I hate that. Every time a woman gets near, I feel like running. I start questioning their sincerity and motives and have not found the woman that makes me feel different.
“Look, I’m sorry for mentioning it,” Mick says after a moment. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m just trying to say that maybe instead of thinking everyone is using you, get to know people and see where it goes.”
I nod my head and stand up. It’s late, and I must wake up early to meet my father. I say goodnight to Mick and make my way to my room.
While I brush my teeth, I get a call from my assistant, Kerry. She doesn’t usually call me outside office hours unless it’s urgent.
“Kerry?” I say.
“Leonard, hi. I’m so sorry to have to do this, but I must go back to Nevada,” she says. I hear her voice cracking over the phone, and my heart goes to her.
“Oh no, is everything all right?” I ask, genuinely concerned.
“Uh, not really. My mom had a stroke, and I don’t know what’s happening with it yet, but from the sounds of it, I might need to stay and help her recover for a while.” I can tell she’s choking back sobs.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, completely at a loss for words; how I can comfort her. “If there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know.”
“Thank you. I’m sorry, but I don’t know when I’ll return to work.”
“I understand, don’t worry about that. Just go take care of your mom,” I say.
We hang up the phone, and I momentarily lean against my bathroom vanity.