10. Rip #3
I raise a brow. “Is that what you’ll get?”
“I’ll probably just order an appetizer.” His response is quick. “Anyway, what will we be filming today?”
“I don’t know if you saw it, but I already texted you the script,” Thomas tells him. “It’s short. I also figure I can take a couple of shots of our food. We can wait until after we’re done eating to record your lines, though.”
“Goodie,” he mutters sarcastically. “Thank God acting isn’t my full-time job. I’d hate my damn life.”
“I don’t know why. With all the views the ads are getting, clearly you’re a natural,” Thomas compliments.
The social media thing has been doing better than we thought it would, considering neither of us knows anything about advertising. Either the algorithm has been extremely kind to us, or Tommy has a knack for marketing.
Our waiter interrupts, and we give him our orders. Kingsley orders an appetizer, as he said he would, while Thomas and I order practically half of the menu.
When the waiter leaves, Kingsley continues. “That’s just because of my name. I could stand in front of a camera and breathe, and it would get views because I’m a Beaumont. Unlike our last social media manager, you two realized that, capitalized on it, and now you’re on my dad’s good side.”
“Glad to know we’re on Xavier’s good side.”
“It’s not hard if you suck up to him,” Kingsley says flatly with a quick roll of the eyes.
If I hadn’t been paying attention, I wouldn’t have caught the slight irritation in his tone. Intriguing.
Thomas and I fall into a natural conversation, with Kingsley chiming in when he best sees fit. The food arrives quickly—I’d reckon Marlene told the chefs it’s a priority order since it’s for Kingsley.
The risotto arrives steaming and tastes way better than it looks online.
By the time I’m scraping the bottom of my plate, and Thomas is scarfing down the last of his scallops, Kingsley still has most of his salad left.
He’s picking at the lettuce, dressed in what I believe to be ranch, with the tomatoes and cucumbers nudged to the side.
It’s his first time at his family’s restaurant, and all he orders is a salad. Something in me wants to ask questions.
But I don’t. It’s not my business, nor my job. I’m here to form enough of a relationship to get information out of him, and I’ve been getting closer to doing just that. No need to deviate from the plan.
“Is that ranch?” I ask. He nods. “Can I try some?”
Without a second thought, he pushes the bowl my way. I poke some with my fork, pop it in my mouth, and the creamy dressing hits my tongue. “Delicious.”
Kingsley continues picking at the lettuce. “I can’t believe you’ve never had ranch before.”
“I can’t believe how talkative you are tonight. To us, and that waitress.” The words escape my tongue before I can stop them.
He meets my gaze. “Marlene has worked with us for a while, so I know her.”
“How lovely. Do you also know how desperate she is to get you into bed?”
Thomas chokes on water, so I hit his back, but my attention stays on King.
He remains completely still. “Not every woman that is kind wants to fuck, Rip.”
“That one does.” And I think you do, too.
Kingsley narrows his eyes, and his lips curl as if he has something smart to say. Instead, he relaxes and goes back to pretending to eat his salad. “I don’t sleep with my employees. Why are we talking about this?”
“Just an observation.” I shrug.
“Stop observing.” It comes across as a statement, not a suggestion; solid but not harsh.
I’m tempted to ask about his late fiancée. I want to see if he freezes up, or if he couldn’t give a single fuck less about her. But judging by the seriousness in his eyes, now might not be the time to test those waters.
Kingsley’s gaze falls to my chest, then back up to my eyes. “Nice tie. Goes well with your suit.”
I look down. Dammit.
Thomas facepalms. “You were supposed to change that before we left.”
“I thought I did!” I defend. “I have a lot of ties, Tommy. Fuck.”
Kingsley stares, dumbfounded. From his point of view, it looks like I’m not bothered about my clothes matching, and Thomas is being a parent, telling me to change.
I’d ignore it and move on because I’d rather not have to explain the ins and outs of red-green colorblindness to him and how it affects me. But then again, maybe if I tell Kingsley something vulnerable about me, he’ll want to share something about himself.
“I’m colorblind,” I say. “Lots of the ties blend together.”
He nods slowly. “I kind of thought so. It explains why you froze at the golf course.”
Kingsley paid that much attention that he guessed my condition all those weeks ago? Hell, we’d barely even met each other. He wouldn’t even have a full conversation with me, yet he noticed something as obscure as my struggle to choose which golf ball to hand the child.
Slightly offended, I scoff. “I didn’t freeze.”
“You did,” he states.
I don’t fucking freeze. “And you’re so sure, how?”
“Because I…” he trails off, eyes glazing over to the other end of the table. “I enjoy watching you.”