12. Adrian
CHAPTER 12
ADRIAN
How could I be so stupid? Why didn’t I talk her out of going to the fucking gallery? Why make her face physical manifestations of my “manwhore” past?
Oh, well. It’s too late now. I deserve the expression of disapproval on her face during this elevator ride. Even if she weren’t a wholesome virgin, I should’ve avoided giving her such an awkward experience.
The elevator stops and Leo dashes inside, eager to play with his toys, no doubt.
“Kitchen first?” I ask Jane.
She nods. “I think I’ve had it with tours for the time being, nor do I want to hear your stomach make any more sounds.”
Right. I take her to the kitchen, pull out the first thing that I see in the fridge, warm it, and set it on the table. All the while, the sullen silence on Jane’s part reminds me of the mistake I made.
When I sit down, I catch Jane looking at her plate in confusion. “Is this crawfish?”
I shake my head. “It’s langoustine.”
“A what?”
“Also known as Norway lobster,” I explain. “Unlike crawfish, it’s a seawater crustacean—and you can taste the difference.”
“And that?” She points at the other plate.
“Heart of palm panache,” I say. “In case it’s not obvious, I was dabbling with French cuisine.”
Before my stomach annoys her again, I dig into my food and watch her do the same.
When she tastes the seafood, her eyes widen and another moan is clearly on her lips—causing Yoda to stir.
“Thoughts?” I ask.
She wrinkles her nose. “It’s bland. And too chewy.”
Yeah. Sure, it is. That’s why she’s wolfing it down like Leo does with peanut butter.
“Can we talk business for a second?” I say, figuring now is as good a time as any to broach unpleasant topics.
She spears the panache with unnecessary violence. “Why not?”
“I’ll need to run a background check on you.”
She rolls her eyes. “Go ahead, if you must.”
That went as well as one could hope. “Do you want to take a preliminary look at the secret contract?”
“Dying to.” She chews the panache with clear delight, but when she spots me looking at her, she wrinkles her nose and says, “You went overboard with the salt.”
Should I tell her that I didn’t even add salt? No. I extend my hand instead. “Give me your phone.”
“Why?” Her amber eyes go slitty.
I resist the urge to sigh. “For security purposes—and to protect the trees—I never use printed contracts. I need your phone so I can install a special app for you. This way, I can use the same app on my phone to share legal documents with you.”
What I don’t add is that this is also the method I used to store the sexual consent forms that I always made sure to set up with the women in my previous relationships. Telling her that would be like the gallery all over again.
Jane takes her phone out but doesn’t hand it over. “What’s the app called?”
I tell her, and she informs me that she “can download apps with her lady fingers, thank you very much.” Once she does, I explain that she’ll need to give the app an email address that she actually checks and that she should memorize the password she’ll use because resetting it is a pretty big headache—as I’ve learned from experience.
“Seriously, I’m not a nincompoop,” she snaps. “In fact, one of the key responsibilities that I would’ve had at the library would’ve been to help people navigate technology—including reading apps that are not unlike this one.”
This time, the sigh does escape my lips. “I’m sorry. I was trying to be helpful.”
“There’s a fine line between helpful and condescending,” she says condescendingly. And weirdly adorably.
“I take it your interview didn’t go well?” I ask to distract myself from Yoda’s continued demands for attention.
I probably should’ve asked this sooner, but her expression when she came out of the library spoke for itself.
I didn’t think she could look more upset, but she turns out to be very good at it. “It was a disaster.” She proceeds to give me the highlights, and I feel even worse now—and regret bringing up this topic so soon after my other faux pas.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” I ask. “I could donate money to the library, or?—”
“You’ve done enough,” she says sharply. “Plus, I only want to get the job based on merit.”
I blow out a breath. “How about I send you the contract?”
She nods, so I do just that.
Jane reads the document over surprisingly quickly, considering all the legalese.
“Seems good at first glance,” she says, looking up from her phone. “Obviously, the final word will be from my lawyers.”
“Let me send you the prenup as well,” I say. “And the NDA for your mom.”
Again, she reviews it all quickly and doesn’t think there’s anything that raises red flags for her.
“Where should I send the money for your lawyer?” I ask.
She tells me, and I take care of it then and there.
When she confirms she’s got it, I walk over to the fridge. “Now on to more pleasant matters. How about dessert?”
She pushes her sparkling-clean plate away. “What do you have?”
“Parfait,” I say. “?le flottante and my take on the macaron.”
She puts a hand to her belly. “I’m not sure I have room.”
I take out the parfait and two spoons. “Try this.”
She gingerly spoons the custard-like concoction I made, but when she sticks it in her mouth, her eyes roll back in pleasure—making the situation with Yoda almost painful.
“How is it?” I ask as I eat a spoonful, doing my best to keep the huskiness out of my voice.
“Too much chocolate,” she says. “And the strawberries must not have been fresh.”
This time, I can’t help but defend myself. “That’s carob, not chocolate, and the strawberries were in a powdered form—made from freeze-dried strawberries that were the perfect freshness and ripeness at the moment of drying.”
She shrugs. “Taste is very subjective.”
“What kind of food do you like?” I ask, deciding not to push her further. “I figure that’s something a husband should know about his wife.”
I see her spoon approaching the parfait, but she stops herself. “It’s a split between kedgeree, Yorkshire pudding, jam tarts, and crumpets.”
I grin. “What they ate in Victorian England?”
She doesn’t return my smile. “They’re not really my favorites. In fact, I’ve never tried any of them. It’s just a list I can spout off the top of my head, so if you memorize it, we’ll be in sync if there’s a test later.”
I memorize the list and sigh. “I’ll make your life even easier: my favorite food is sushi from the place we visited tonight—the one where I’m no longer welcome.”
She cocks her head. “Your favorite is the most expensive place on Earth. Very relatable.”
I push the parfait her way. “Do you mind finishing it? There’s too little left to put back in the fridge.”
“If I must.” She demolishes the dessert and then looks at me expectantly. “Background check, contracts—do you have any other unpleasantries you want to get out of the way?”
“Not that I can think of,” I say. “Would you like to see the rest of my home?”
She wrinkles her nose. “It’s getting late.”
“You are going to be moving in here,” I remind her. “Plus, it’s a good way to learn more about me.”
“I’ve learned enough.” She stands up. “Mom is expecting me.”
Shit. I hope she’s not pulling out. I walk her to the door. “Can I get you a ride?”
“No,” she says vehemently. “I’ll get my own Uber.”
Fuck. This is about Jennifer’s painting.
“In that case, text me when you get home.”
“Fine.” She does her best martyr impersonation and dashes into the elevator without so much as a goodbye.
With the sound of claws on granite floors, Leo walks up and pokes me with his wet nose.
Where’s the lady who smells nice?
“She left,” I say. “I really messed things up by showing her the gallery.”
Leo wags his tail.
I think she’ll be back. You can buy a lot of peanut butter for twenty million human dollars.
“I really hope so.” Because if I fucked this up, I’ll never forgive myself.