2. #2
That’s what I wanted to ask. I know this man doesn’t do his own grocery shopping.
His parents were millionaires. Now that they’re gone, I’m sure they left everything to him.
Why wouldn’t they? He was their only child.
The large estate, the cars, the business – I’m sure it’s all his.
So, in my opinion, he shouldn’t be in the vicinity of a grocery store or any other kind of store.
He’s supposed to have people doing that for him, just like his parents had my mother cleaning their house.
Whenever Mrs. Noble couldn’t cook, she had a chef come in, or they’d dine out.
They had groundskeepers, a pool person, and a part-time nanny.
On another note, why didn’t my mother tell me she ran into Kasim? Surely she would’ve said something, especially since she knew how close we used to be back then.
“But yes,” I say. “I’m still at Intech. Been there forever.”
“Do you like it?”
I shrug. “It pays the bills.”
“I get that, but do you like it? Are you passionate about it?”
“Am I passionate about getting up at six o’clock every morning, being stuck in traffic, sitting at a desk for eight hours while my booty cheeks go numb, and doing it all again, the next day and the next day and the next?”
“I’ll take that as a no,” he says.
Smart man.
“That’s too bad, though,” he tells me.
“Why’s that?”
“I remember how passionate you used to be about school projects and things. Do you recall helping me with my science project in the fifth grade? I got an ‘A’ because of you.”
“Wait—you remember that?”
“You don’t?” he asks with his brows sloped. “I mostly remember you paying attention to every detail of what Saturn should look like. All that research you did…” He smiles, reminiscing while staring at my mouth.
I hope he’s not waiting for me to respond, because I have nothing to add.
He continues, “You were going above and beyond for something you didn’t have to do because the passion was there.”
“Yeah, well, in the real world, I guess one doesn’t have a lot of time to think about passion when the car note is due every month on the third.”
“I heard that,” he says, grimacing slightly right before his eyes narrow. He pulls his inquisitive eyes away from me and returns them to the menu.
“Have you been here before?” he inquires without looking up at me.
“No. I don’t usually go to restaurants that require a reservation.”
“No way,” he says, lowering the menu.
“ Way . The last fancy restaurant I ate at was Red Lobster.”
He belts out a hearty laugh and I don’t see what’s so funny. Fresh-out-of-the-oven cheddar bay biscuits and all you can eat shrimp is the come up for people like me. Show me another restaurant that compares to Red Lobster. It’s certainly not this place!
“Good ol’ Red Lobster, huh?” he teases, on the backside of a laugh. “I ain’t mad at that.”
“You eat at Red Lobster?” I ask, flicking up both brows, already showing my disbelief. No way a man like him eats at Red Lobster.
“No, dear, but I’m not opposed to it.”
Dear .
I’m not sure how I feel about him calling me that in this context. It comes across as condescending, but I’m going to give him the benefit of the doubt that he didn’t mean it that way.
“You don’t have to do that, Kasim.”
“Do what?”
“Lower yourself to my level. I already know what you on.”
He smiles the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen on a man and asks, “What am I on? I’m an ordinary guy.”
Ordinary...
It would be a rich man to make a statement like that.
What’s ordinary about being a millionaire at twenty-eight years old and inheriting everything your parents owned, including their business?
Ain’t nothing ordinary about him. His money ain’t ordinary.
His face ain’t ordinary. His lips ain’t ordinary.
That beard ain’t ordinary. That suit ain’t ordinary. The way he smells ain’t—
“Giada?”
Ahem . I clear my throat. “Yes?”
“I was saying you should probably take a look over the menu before the server returns.”
“Oh. Right.”
I pick up the fancy menu, and my heart drops to the carpeted floor.
These prices are outrageous, but with a name like Essence of Noir, I don’t know why I’m surprised.
If we skip appetizers, I could probably keep the bill under eight hundred dollars.
Either way, I’m walking out of here with substantially less money than I had when I came in.
I didn’t think I would need to clean out my savings just to have a meal, but it looks like that’s the way it’s going.
“Everything’s on me tonight.”
I glance up from the menu. I didn’t realize I was frowning until I heard his voice, nor did I realize he was looking at me. I say, “No, that’s not how it works. You’re my guest.” Yeah, guest because I refuse to say date. “So, I’m supposed to pay.”
“Well, I’m here to tell you, Ms. Gardner —there’s no way you’ll pay for anything while you’re in my presence. Now—” he says, focusing on the menu. “How about an appetizer?”
I grin at these outrageous prices and say, “The cheapest appetizer is the shrimp, and that’s $275. I wonder if it’s a typo.”
“Money is no object,” he says casually. “Get whatever you want.”
“Interesting.”
Kasim lowers the menu. “What’s that?”
“If money is no object, why bother to go through all of this when you could very easily write a check to the foundation and be done with it? For men like you, time is more valuable than money, is it not?”
He studies me for so long, my stomach sours. Did he not like my question? I didn’t think it was rude – just simply straightforward.
He looks at the menu again, saying, “That is a good question, isn’t it?”
“Yes, one you haven’t answered.”
“Let’s choose an appetizer, shall we?” he asks, blatantly ignoring my question even further.
It’s at this point that I know the boy Kasim and the man Kasim are two completely different individuals.
Time has changed him, matured him, given him status, but I suspect money and power have changed him more than time ever could.
He orders some shrimp, and we proceed to place our entrée orders at the same time. I get the $375 grilled chicken. For this price, it had better come with a side of golden eggs and a stimulus check. Kasim orders the $500 steak dinner. Five hundred dollars!
When the server walks away, Kasimgives me his full attention. I almost hate the fact that he doesn’t have a menu to stare at any longer and neither do I. It’s just us looking at each other now. Remembering things. Familiarizing ourselves with the different versions of us.
“So—do you still live in Gastonia?”
“Yep. Still here. Mom’s there, so…” I say as if I’m required to stay there just because she’s there.
In a way, I feel obligated. My mom sacrificed so much for me, and my father wasn’t around, so she had to do it all.
Now it’s up to me to make sure she’s well taken care of.
Do I want to live in Gastonia? No, I don’t.
I’ve dreamed of leaving this place, starting a new life, and being this carefree, adventurous person I was as a teenager.
But those dreams shriveled up and died years ago.
Kasim smirks. “Hey, how’d you end up at the auction, anyway? It’s not something I can see you doing voluntarily.”
“Oh, you don’t want to tell me why you’re here, but you want to know why I’m here?”
His phone rings – one of those loud, obnoxious ones that immediately captures people’s attention.
He takes it out, silences it, and says, “Sorry about that,” before sliding it back into the pocket of his suit jacket.
“I’m here to satisfy a requirement for the company.
Showing my face in charity work is good for the organization. ”
“Right…” I say, not impressed by his answer. This is a photo op for him. Again, it lacks feeling, the same as his statement about his parents, but on what grounds do I have to be judgmental when I didn’t even want to come here?
I say, “I’m here because my best friend, Diedra, talked me into it.”
His lips twist to one corner as he mutters, “I remember when I used to be your best friend.”
“What was that?” I ask like I didn’t make out what he said, but I did.
“Nothing,” he answers.
I swallow the knot in my throat at his words because in his eyes, I see the feeling behind them, but I’m not sure why.
Yeah, we used to be tight, but that ended when we were fourteen.
We’re adults now. We have lives. Jobs. Responsibilities.
Deadlines. We’re not besties anymore. That’s been over and done with.
He takes a sip of water. I mimic him and do the same, relieving the dryness in my throat. I should’ve ordered a drink – something that will help me ease into this conversation, because this water isn’t going to cut it.
“Hey, what about a bottle of wine?” he asks. You’d think the man was reading my thoughts.
“I would love some, but it’s probably an arm and two legs. Perhaps I could sell a kidney.”
He snickers under this breath. “No worries.” He throws up his index finger for our server, then after successfully summoning her, he tells her to bring a bottle of their finest wine. He doesn’t give a crap about the price.
Moments later, she’s back with wine. A gentleman brings the butterfly shrimp – the appetizer – all six of them for $275. All I can do is shake my head, thinking how insane it is for food to be priced this high. I bet I could get this same shrimp at Red Lobster and it probably tastes better, too.
The server pops the cork, pours us both some wine and walks away. I immediately drink mine and pour more into my glass.
Kasim smirks and says, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were nervous.”
“Oh, I am.”
Very much so.
“Why? It’s just me.”
It’s just me…