S E V E N T E E N
- Avery -
I couldn’t help but like him. Even if I discounted his good looks, he was undeniably charming. No doubt he was on his best behavior, but I’d met enough assholes to know he wasn’t hiding a despicable personality under his dashing demeanor.
He hadn’t been impolite or impatient, hadn’t put me down to big himself up. He even ordered the house wine, which really surprised me. I would’ve bet anything a guy like him wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to swirl his glass pretentiously and do the whole sniff-and-spew-sommelier-speak charade, but he skipped it entirely.
Granted, that wasn’t exactly hard proof that he had nothing in common with the entitled jerk he played on TV, but reality TV was excessively produced these days. Maybe he was no more the villain he played on primetime than I was a pigtail-wearing brownie bitch with nothing on my mind but pouring perfect caramel.
Not that I’m a fan of two-faced behavior, but if I had to choose between discovering a nice guy was an asshole or discovering a frog was a prince, the latter was certainly a better surprise. Obviously, the dream would be meeting someone whose temperament was consistent, but I had no reason to believe that existed in the animal kingdom.
“So why are you single?” I blurted, unable to resist the urge to interview him even though I wasn’t technically hiring for any official positions… though that hadn’t kept me from imagining him in more positions than I cared to admit.
“Because I haven’t met the right person,” he said before helping himself to an oyster.
“There’s a stock answer, if ever I heard one.”
“I’m not blowing you off,” he said, resting his fingers near the stem of his wine glass. “It’s just the truth.”
“It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it, but—”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Oh.” Was that a weird question? I felt like people asked me that all the time, but now I had to wonder if he had a weird growth on his penis or a closet full of dresses or skeletons or both.
He sighed like he could tell I was dissatisfied with his answer. “I’m single because my ex and I broke up.”
“Equally vague.”
“I know, but I wanted to clarify that it’s not my singledom that I’d rather not talk about.”
“It’s your last relationship?”
He nodded and reached for his water.
Meanwhile, I wondered if the place served oxygen. “Any pets?” I asked, eager to restore the gaiety we’d been enjoying earlier. Please don’t tell me your dog just died.
“Yeah,” he said, like he hadn’t quite shaken the black cloud my previous line of questioning created. “A cat.”
“You didn’t strike me as a cat guy.”
“I’m not a cat guy.”
I squinted at him. “Yet you have a cat.”
“A lot of people who have cats aren’t cat people.”
I squinted at him.
“Cats are very persuasive,” he continued. “They’ve been charming their way into people’s lives since Egyptian times. Plus, it wasn’t my idea.”
Oh, shit. No wonder the question hadn’t cheered him up. “Sorry. I was trying to change the subject.”
“Don’t apologize. No sense keeping the cat in the bag.”
“What’s her name?” I asked.
“His name is Simba.”
“He’s not one of those naked monkey cats, is he?”
He blinked at me.
“You know. The hairless ones that supposedly don’t act like cats at all.”
He shook his head. “No. He’s a normal cat. Spends most of his time sleeping and acting smug. Only thing unusual about him is that he’s more grateful than the average cat.”
“Grateful?”
“He used to live in an alley next to my ex’s favorite burrito place, and he followed us home one day.”
My eyes widened.
“We assumed he wouldn’t stick around, but he started leaving birds outside the building for us, and eventually the neighbors told us to get our cat under control. So we took him to the vet, earned his affection, and he and I are a packaged deal now.”
Well, it was official. Monsters didn’t rescue smelly cats from the street. Maybe this guy was worthy of meeting my neglected pussy someday. “Wow.”
“I know. We’re really cute together. I can’t believe Hollywood hasn’t called about turning our story into a movie.”
I bit back a smile, amused at the idea that this intimidating man melted when he was met with whiskers.
“I’m convinced he remembers his old life because he won’t eat Mexican food anymore. Can’t even stand the smell of it.”
“So what do you do when you want Mexican food?”
“I sneak out to eat it in secret and hope he doesn’t smell it on my clothes.”
I laughed.
“It happens more than you’d think,” he said. “I adore spicy food.”
“Me too.”
He smiled graciously at our server as she removed the plate between us, which was empty apart from the shells of our oysters. “In that case, there’s a Nepalese place nearby that I’ve been meaning to try, if you’d like to join me some night?”
“Would you be working?”
“Only on wooing you,” he said. “Otherwise it would be strictly for pleasure.”
“Like a second date?”
“If we don’t squeeze one in before then.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” I said, reaching for my wine.
“I’m glad you’re as fun to talk to as you are to look at.”
Heat bloomed across my cheeks. How was this guy single?
“Thanks again for joining me tonight. I know you had some reservations initially, but I hope you don’t have any regrets about accepting my invitation.”
“None whatsoever,” I said. “Though I could’ve done without the manipulation.”
His brows drew together. “What manipulation?”
“That whole spiel about how I’d have to wonder about you forever if I didn’t come?”
“You would’ve, though,” he said, his eyes locking on mine. “Besides, you were wondering about me anyway.”
“How do you figure?” I asked, since denying it would be a lie.
“Oh, come on. You don’t think I was actually fooled by your reserved professionalism following the festival?”
“Careful now. I’ve been looking for evidence all night that you’re not the cocky jerk you portray yourself to be in the papers.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“What’s the verdict?”
“The jury’s still out.”
“All men are jerks, Avery, until they meet the right woman.”
I stared at him, the truth of his words landing like an anvil on my chest.
“Don’t look so shocked. A smart woman like you has surely suspected as much all along.”
It took all my strength and self-preservation instincts to keep my mind from recalling my dating history. “Does that mean if I’m not the right woman for you, this is all going to end in you being a jerk?”
“Wouldn’t that be easier?”
“How would that be easier?” I asked.
“Because it’s easier to get over people who are horrible to you.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “That’s not how this story ends.”
“How does it end?”
“It’s a surprise,” he said.
I cocked my head.
“For me, too,” he said, leaning back.
I rolled my eyes.
“But I have a good feeling I’m not going to do anything that would make it easy for you to get over me.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“Because I think I’d prefer to have you under me.”
I sighed. “So much for being the perfect gentleman.”
“I have been the perfect gentleman,” he said. “And I’ll continue to be because you deserve nothing less.”
“And you think that excuses the filth?”
He leaned across the table, his eyes darkening when they met mine. “Gentlemen are just as filthy as scoundrels. The difference is that gentlemen remember to put fun and flirtation first.”
I swallowed.
He stole a glance at my lips. “And only a scoundrel lets a woman wonder if he wants her.”