CHAPTER THREE
“Lorelai?” the voice asks.
He’s the kind of man who would probably look good in anything, and he has that effortless look, like he just threw it on.
He could have picked up the clothes at Walmart or at a designer store and it wouldn’t even matter.
Without asking, he picks up my bags and I can’t help but gawk at the way his biceps bulge under his shirt.
As he straightens up, I get a whiff of peppermint followed by lingering notes of tobacco and even a whiff of butterscotch.
It’s delicious. I imagine myself leaning towards him to get a better whiff, and laugh out loud at the thought.
“What’s so funny?” he asks, cocking his head.
“Oh, nothing,” I say.
“Doesn’t seem like it was nothing,” he says, staring at me until I look away.
“Oh, uh,” I stammer, not knowing what to say.
As he stares me down, I feel like he can see right through me. It scares me.
“We’ll work on that,” he says after a few seconds.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer, but instead turns and simply says, “Follow me.”
I scurry to follow him, almost tripping in my high-heeled boots.
As I stumble along the pebbled walkway, he gets further ahead of me.
“Can we maybe walk somewhere smoother?” I ask.
He stops and turns around. His eyes drop to my feet and he chuckles.
“What’s so funny?” I ask, crossing my arms.
“Typical woman,” he says. “Choosing fashion over practicality.”
I open my mouth, ready to respond with a jab of my own, but he continues.
“Not that I’m complaining,” he adds.
Something warm flushes in my chest, and my anger dissipates.
“We’re almost there,” he says. “Come on.”
I follow him for another 30 seconds or so until we arrive in front of what can only be described as the grandest house I’ve ever seen.
It’s incredibly modern with floor-to-ceiling glass everywhere on the outside.
I can see from the outside that it’s spotless—everything is white, pristine, state of the art.
I glimpse a few humongous flat-screen TVs and a few pieces of tasteful art.
“Wow,” I say.
“I’m glad you approve,” he says as he opens up the door. “After you.”
I walk into the foyer and spin around. There are two staircases leading up to the bedrooms and a humongous chandelier.
“I feel like I’m in a movie or something,” I say, twirling.
He laughs. “I love feminine joy,” he says. “It’s so pure.”
I pause my twirling and look at him quizzically. “What do you mean, feminine joy?” I ask. “Don’t you just mean joy?”
“Nope,” he says, as he walks up the stairs.
He doesn’t pause to explain, so I scurry after him.
“Wait, what do you mean?” I ask.
He chuckles. “I can already tell you’re going to be a bit of a firecracker, aren’t you?”
He places my bags down into what appears to be a master bedroom and I gasp.
There’s a bed bigger than king-size with red sheets and black cushions.
I notice a bench in the corner that looks suspiciously like something I’ve seen in porn and my heart flutters.
I also notice a cross affixed in the shape of an X to one wall, and I can’t quite tell if it’s sex-related or art.
He catches me looking at it and he smirks.
“You like?”
I blush and look away.
“We’ll have plenty of time for that later,” he says. “Follow me.”
I feel simultaneously indignant, but also a little bit turned on.
“Hey. There might not be any... You can’t assume that,” I say. “What if I don’t want there to be anything later?”
He laughs. “Oh, you are a firecracker,” he says. “They really did a good job this time.”
I’ve had enough. I grab him by the arm and spin him around.
“Enough,” I say. “I need some answers now. You can’t keep avoiding my questions.”
He cocks his head to the side, surprised. I think I’ve caught him off guard. My moment of bravery is quickly overshadowed by a mild feeling of discomfort as I take in his large stature. I gulp as he looks down at me.
Was this a bad idea? I ask myself,
But the moment of hesitation quickly disappears.
After pausing for a second, he suddenly lifts me up and throws me over his shoulder.
“Hey,” I say.
As I start to wiggle, one of his arms clamps down across the backs of my thighs as he carries me swiftly down the stairs, opens a door, and leads me into a study.
“You can’t just...”
He plops me down onto a small wooden chair and seats himself in a black leather chair opposite me. I can’t help but notice that his is much larger. I’m stunned. I don’t even know what to say.
“I’m a busy man,” he says.
He pauses, as if that explains anything.
“What the hell is going on?” I ask. “First you won’t answer any of my questions, and then you just pick me up out of nowhere.”
He raises his hand in the air, commanding silence.
“As you already know,” he says, speaking to me slowly as if I’m a child.
I feel myself slink into my chair, embarrassed, although I’m not quite sure why.
“I’m a very busy man, Lorelai,” he continues. “My time is valuable. I may be enjoying your antics, but I won’t have time to deal with it on a regular basis, so I don’t want to set a bad precedent. Does that help clear things up?”
I squint. “Not really.”
“What do you mean by my antics?” I ask.
He sighs. “Your constant questions. While it’s cute, and like I said, I do love a firecracker, in the future, I won’t have the time to be constantly fielding your questions. Do you understand?”
“Not really,” I say slowly.
He sighs again.
“Okay, this is what we’re going to do,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “You have five minutes to ask me anything you want.”
“Okay,” I say, waiting for him to continue.
He glances down at his watch. “Time’s ticking.”
I’m confused and flustered, but I feel a sense of urgency, and for some reason I know he’s not bluffing.
“Okay,” I say after a few beats. “What did you mean when you said they did a good job this time and sent you a firecracker or something like that?”
“Ah,” he says, leaning back and rubbing his chin. “Keen observation, Lorelai. I like that. As I’ve said now multiple times, I’m a busy man. I don’t have time to date traditionally, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have needs.”
He pauses on that last word and locks eyes with me. I feel a fire in my belly.
“I’m obviously not going to waste my time swiping on apps or signing up for gimmicks. So I leave that to my team.”
“Team?” I ask, raising my brows.
“Yes,” he says. “I have a team. Secretary, chef, personal assistant, etc. I’m sure you know what I mean.”
I try to conceal how impressed and slightly intimidated I am. While I had a feeling he was quite successful, I’m getting the sense now that I greatly underestimated him.
“Okay,” I say, biting my lower lip. “And you said you like that I’m a firecracker?” I ask, my voice rising at the end of my sentence.
He nods.
“Can you elaborate?” I ask.
He chuckles. “I like bratty women,” he says.
He lets that hang in the air between us, and I gulp. It feels like there’s something big there, something unsaid. I can feel this electricity in the air, just hanging. It’s like a bubble, and neither of us wants to pop it.
He glances down again at his watch. “Two minutes.”
Panic rushes through me.
“What’s with all the misogynistic comments?” I blurt out.
He cocks his head to the side. “What do you mean?”
“You know, feminine joy,” I say, quoting him.
“Oh, that,” he says. “I like feminine women,” he says plainly, as if that explains everything.
“And what, you think women and men are intrinsically different or something?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says, nodding perfunctorily.
I frown. Is this man a red pill incel or something?
“So what, you’re into the whole trad wife thing?” I ask him.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says.
“You know,” I say. “Barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen. All that crap.”
He shakes his head.
“Do you see any children running around? Do I look like a traditional man?”
I pause. He’s got a point. But then again, there are some things about him that feel... I don’t know if traditional is the right word. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but there’s something about him that’s hard to describe. I feel like it’s on the tip of my tongue.
“Let me help you out,” he says, “since we’re running out of time. I’m not necessarily traditional, but I like polarity. Feminine versus masculine. Energies are quite different,” he says. “Do you agree?”
I pause for a second, racking my brain. Do I agree?
“Sometimes,” I say. “It depends.”
He nods. “You’re right. As with most things in life, nothing is one size fits all. I’m simply describing to you my preferences. I’m at a point in my life where I can demand exactly what I want and settle for nothing less.”
“So let me be blunt here, Lorelai. Although I had my team do a rigorous background review on you to see if you would match, I still need to ask you myself: Is this something you’re interested in?”
“What do you mean?” I ask. “I talked to your assistant or recruiter or whatever. I’m here. Obviously, I’m interested.”
He stares at me for a few seconds, and I feel suddenly naked.
“I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about this,” he says, gesturing between him and me. “The dynamic between us.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. “You’re very handsome if that’s what you...”
“That’s not what I’m asking, Lorelai, and I think you know it.”
“What are you asking, then?” I ask him.
He raises his eyebrows. “Don’t play dumb with me.”
I cock my head to the side, twirling a strand of hair on my finger. I’m 90% sure I know what he’s talking about, but I don’t want to put myself out there and say something dumb. I want him to confirm it for me.
“I’m really not sure,” I say, widening my eyes.
“Is this how it’s going to be, Lorelai?” he asks. “A constant game between us? Don’t get me wrong, I love games. And trust me, I always fucking win. But this little mind game you’re playing with me right now? It’s getting a little boring. And frankly, I don’t have time for it.”
He gazes into my eyes, and a shiver runs down my spine. Fuck.
He starts talking again. “So I need you to put on your big girl pants now and tell me what you want, because I don’t have time for little girls who play around.”
Oh damn. That cut deep. My cheeks flush red. Part of me thinks this man is way out of line. I mean, I think it would be totally reasonable for me to not know what he’s talking about. But another part of me knows he’s right, because I do know what he’s talking about.
And for some reason, we’re in this standoff. I’m being stubborn, like always. There’s a voice deep inside of me that’s telling me now is not the time, but it’s too ingrained in me to let go. I can’t do it.
I look at him and slowly, my voice steady, say, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Well then,” he says, standing up abruptly. He walks behind his desk and opens a drawer. “How about a little hands-on demonstration?”