“Sure, but they’re not as interested in Hope and Bridget. Mostly you. For every hit they get, you get eight to ten more. That is substantial in the world of social media, especially exponentially.”
I’d never done that math. Or listened when PR people wanted to talk to me about it. “Well, I guess it’s probably because they have their shit together and I don’t. I make more of an interesting look, like I might fall off a train or end up in rehab.”
They placed two glasses in front of us, both filled with red wine, and then placed the bottle between us. I eyed the glasses. He did like his red wine.
And I’d liked the little bit he’d been letting me try in the last twenty-four hours.
“You hardly even drink. Unless you have a drug problem I’m missing, I don’t see a trip to rehab for you happening anytime soon. You don’t eat enough, but I’m not thinking you need to be hospitalized for that. You don’t look sick, seem to have plenty of energy. I’m not a doctor. I’m guessing here.” He sipped his wine. “And maybe you should stay off trains if you really think that is a problem.”
I laughed despite myself. “So I guess it’s not either of those things. I don’t know why they follow me more.”
“I do.” He said that startling phrase right before the waiter set down cheese in front us. I almost laughed. I was in France. I couldn’t believe how long it had been for me to see cheese in France. We hadn’t even had any at my rehearsal dinner because my almost mother-in-law was allergic to it. Zeke started cutting it up and distributing it on a plate for me and then some on a plate for him.
I guessed I was eating it, and the truth was that I was sort of hungry. It had been a busy morning, and I was actually hungry. And I liked cheese, a lot. Actually, the stinkier the better. I couldn’t get enough of it, like other people couldn’t stop eating sweets. I had that problem with dairy, so I did try to avoid it simply because it was harder to control myself.
“Aren’t you going to ask me why?” He lifted his gaze to meet my own, and taking a cue from his own playbook, I winked at him, which made him grin. I loved his real smiles. They were few and far between. Zeke was more likely to smirk or fake a grin than anything else, but these real ones were like manna from heaven.
“Sure. As long as you understand I can cut up my own food. Been doing so since I was a little girl.” I held up my hand. “And I’m not a little girl now. Just so we’re clear.”
He nodded. “Right. But if you do it, then you’re going to be taking these little tiny pieces and not really eating anything.”
Zeke could only say that because he didn’t yet know about me and the obsession with cheese. I might take it straight off his plate and eat it if I wasn’t really strict with myself. He could keep the chocolate mousse, give me brie any day of the week.
I took a bite of the goat cheese and had to close my eyes because it was so delicious. The taste exploded in my mouth. Creamy. Soft. I barely had to chew it. Before I could stop myself, I let out the smallest moan and then wished I hadn’t. He’d promised not to let other people make fun of me or to make fun of me to others, but I was sure I’d just earned myself his teasing from just how much I loved that bite. I opened my lids and waited for it.
Zeke stared at me from across the table, saying nothing. There was heat in his gaze, but otherwise, I couldn’t make out his thoughts. Would I ever be able to? “Why?”
He blinked. “What?”
Had he lost track of this conversation? My lunch partner shifted in his seat, leaning forward just a little bit, and took a sip of his wine. I wanted more of that goat cheese, but had to be careful about it. Too much all at once might be dangerous for my equilibrium.
“Why do they click on me more?”
His smile was slow. “Because it’s impossible to stop looking at you once someone starts. You’re completely intoxicating. Apparently, the way that you find that cheese.”
I just had to own my dairy fixation and get it out there. There was nothing else for it but to lean into the upcoming tease. “I love dairy. I should have warned you. I can’t get enough. If I have to go to rehab, it will be because I am addicted to it. Cheese is my weakness. After today, I have to ask you to not put this out in front of me again. Not if you want me to fit into the clothes you just spent a fortune on for me.”
He leaned across the table, hands on both sides of it. “I would buy you ten times that amount of clothes to watch you eat that goat cheese every day just like that.”
I was suddenly braver, stronger, and sexier than I had ever been. The feeling wouldn’t last. I knew enough about temporary bouts of elation to understand they didn’t last, but in that moment, I was queen of the fucking universe. Before I could talk myself out of it, I picked up the rest of that piece of cheese and put it right in my mouth.
The same flood of deliciousness struck me, and though I intended to keep my eyes open, I really just couldn’t. It was almost sensory overload. Closing my eyes, I let it rush through me, let myself enjoy the sheer magnitude of pleasure that overtook my body in the moments it took to chew and swallow that cheese. When it was finally finished, I made myself open my eyes to meet his gaze. That was embarrassing, but somehow also filled with elation at the same time. I picked up my wine and sipped it.
In another world, where I didn’t have to worry every second of the day about my sheer existence, I could have moments like this all the time. But life was hard, things were rough on everyone, and I had it pretty easy considering. Poor Layla. Poor little rich girl.
“A million different thoughts just crossed through your mind, and now you are feeling sad. How did you go from such sheer happiness to being unhappy in under five seconds flat?”
I shrugged. “I’m a lot.”
“You asked me why I didn’t try to get away from your dad earlier when I knew what he was doing.” He was so serious in that moment, still leaning forward over the table. I wanted to look away, but made myself keep my gaze locked on his. Some things were supposed to be intense, they were meant to be. I had a gut instinct this was one of those moments.
I nodded. “I did.”
“Don’t picture me better than your dad. When we started out, we were very bright, very talented people, who were behind the eight ball from moment one. We didn’t go to the schools our colleagues went to in high school. I was an Ivy Leaguer trying to pay for my books by serving pizza every day. Until I figured out that I could make more money betting in casinos and at the track. I was good at it.”
I tried to picture that. I’d gone to those schools, wherever we lived. My father had insisted we all be educated like that, even though the constant moving made it ridiculously hard for me.
He sat back and took his wine. “We hated those boarding school fuckers.” He smiled like the memory was amusing to him. “Your father had just lost your mother two years earlier when I met him. I was raising money for a defunct fund that I was keeping afloat with investors who wanted out, and I couldn’t blame them. I met your dad. He was…having a bad moment at the bank where he was working.”
I’d never heard any of this before. “In Chicago.”
“No, by then he’d moved you to Boston. I never knew you guys in Chicago. Never knew your mom. He didn’t like to talk about her, and it was almost a year of knowing him that I even knew he had four fucking children.”
Now that was disappointing but not surprising. “We were always his afterthoughts.”
“Not his afterthoughts. His guarded secrets.” He drank more of his wine. “We all have them.”
“Are you hiding a dead wife and children?”
Zeke actually laughed. “Absolutely not. No. I’ve fathered no offspring.” He rubbed his eyes. “And grateful I haven’t. Who needs that kind of leash? Wife? Kids? No.”
That was funny, because I could sort of see him with a wife, with children. He liked watching sunsets. Wouldn’t it be better to have someone to watch them with? He’d wanted me to see. I didn’t say that because it would take us off t
rack, and I wanted to stay right where we were.
“We made each other a promise. We’d be each other’s person. Count on each other. He was a genius, I was talented. Together, we could do great things, and we did. So when it went sour, and it did, as all things do because nothing lasts forever, I didn’t get out as fast as I should have. I’m decades behind in ending things, because I wanted to hold on to the idea that what we formed was real, that it could work. I sort of understood him. He was out there doing things that he shouldn’t have been doing because that was his background, like it’s mine. You think I don’t get feeling phony in my clothes? Layla, you are looking at the king of faking it. Dress the part, and people believe you. But I learned long ago, and you’ll get there some day, that we can be whoever the fuck we want to be on the inside. We can be real. However, we fake it during the day; at night, we’re still our best and worst selves. Don’t let the playing the part drag down the person playing it.”
I supposed that was good advice. Only I hated it, and decided right then and there I wasn’t going to listen to it. What was more, even though I had no business whatsoever thinking I knew anything at all, everything inside of me was screaming that Zeke shouldn’t be living like that either. “What about authenticity?”
“We’re pretending to date to piss off your father. What about it? Should we really be speaking about being authentic right now?”
He was right, and it killed my mood. Plummeted it right to the ground. I took another bite of my cheese, and it did nothing to make me feel better. I was a liar. I’d always been truthful. Lied to myself? Sure. I hadn’t known until I absolutely did how much I hated Kit, but the second I did? I’d done something, albeit a dramatic over the top something, about it. Hell, I’d been a liar before this even started. I did it every time I went out the door dressed from head to toe in an outfit I hated just because it was expected of me. Play the part of the socialite. Or maybe it wasn’t playing a part. Maybe I was lying to myself by thinking there was any chance that I could be something else.
At least if I’d married Kit, it could have continued. I’d have done what I should have, and sure, he would have been half out of his mind and inattentive, but that was what regular trips to rehab could have been for. There would have been children at some point, and despite the fact that Zeke scoffed at them, they were something I wanted more than anything. Although that could be a mistake, too.
I might be the worst mother there ever was. I had no example of one to draw on. Not even a bad one. Totally absent from my life because she took too many pills.
“Layla.” His voice was low. “I…”
I waved my hand. He was right. One hundred percent that way. And he wasn’t the only one who could pull off a fake smile. I was horribly good at it. But then again, I was a practiced liar. And I’d do that with Zeke until I could get on with my life, whatever that looked like. He’d made me a deal, and I’d stick to it. In the end, we’d both win.
It couldn’t kill something inside of me that was already dead or had never lived to begin with.
“This is a lovely wine. You do seem to like red wine. Is that your favorite?” Benign nothing conversations were easy. I barely had to listen to his responses. I’d float away to la-la land like I always did.
“Layla.” His voice was gruff, and I ignored it. Men could be managed. I’d learned that early. I just had to stay pleasant.
“Maybe when you retire, you should open a vineyard. Don’t a lot of ex-businessmen do that? Not that you yourself would be out there growing the grapes. But you put your name on it. The marketing. I can really see it for you.” I sipped the wine again. It was lovely. Not as fierce as the last one, but still very tasty. “Or will you be the yachting kind of retiree?”
Chapter Eleven
“Okay.” He set down his glass with a clunk. “Normally, I’d have more wine right now because you’re right, this is quite good. But I never have more than one if I’m driving my motorcycle. So you drink more, since you’re playing pretend-like-you’re-not-pissed-at-me. It helps.”
I shrugged. “I don’t know that I have any interest in being pissed at you. We might want to get the check. It’s going to take me most of the afternoon to look right for tonight.”
“No, it won’t. You’re stunning. I bet it takes you under an hour to get ready.” He didn’t seem thrilled to be delivering that statement by the way he spoke with his jaw clenched. “Finish your cheese. You like it. And we have a salad coming, so we’re not going to be going anytime soon.”
“I know I’m a liar.” I couldn’t leave it alone if we were going to be sitting here for some time to come. “But I had this idea that I could start over from a place of truth, and yes, it upsets me to have you pointing out that I’ve already failed. I’m a liar. I’ll always be a liar. And I suppose I should just get over myself and move on. Is that what you’d like to hear?” I hated my tears, and after one fell, I sucked the others back in. “Please ignore my crying. I don’t like it, and I’m just over a day from having run away from my wedding. I’m not quite myself yet. I don’t have my defenses in order.”
He was so quiet, I wondered if he’d say anything at all. Finally, he shook his head. “Just tell me to fuck off.”
“What?” I finished my cheese, barely tasting it. And the waiter came by and set down the salad.
“Tell me to fuck off. I deserve it. I ruined your lunch. I took away all that joy you had going with the cheese. Go ahead and tell me to fuck off.”
I stared at him. “I don’t tell people to fuck off.”
“You should, you’d feel better.” He took a bite of his salad. “I do think about opening a vineyard or taking over one that is failing. I do love red wine. And whisky. But I don’t want to run or own a distillery. Well, maybe I could be part owner of one. Something like that. I don’t want to have anything to do with the day-to-day workings.”
He’d clearly thought about this, and it was distracting enough to listen to him that I took a bite of my salad and was able to taste the food without choking on all the bile our fight had brought up. “When do you see yourself doing that?”
“When I retire.”
Well, that told me nothing. “You’re thirty-eight. Virile. You are fit like you could win a marathon right now. I don’t know your health history, and please, over lunch, don’t give it to me. But you could be a billionaire, right? If you get that money my dad may have hidden somewhere. You could retire right then and there. So, this could be your second act, and it could be very soon.”
“I don’t know if I’ll ever retire. I like working. It’s what I do. I like weekends when I can take them, like today. Quick breaks to have fun, and then back at it. I think the vineyard thing will be one of many things I will do in so-called retirement. I may be even busier then than I am now.”
It was really interesting how he saw his future. That wasn’t how I wanted things for myself. Sure, I was too young to worry about retiring now, but in the future, I did want someone to stay with me when we were older, raise the kids together, watch them as grownups living their own lives. Laugh. Travel—assuming the other person could manage the language barrier—and have fun with.
I did want to stop.
He wanted to know what I wanted to do with my life right now, and all I could think about was what I wanted to do with it then. What did that say about me?
We finished eating and eventually made our way to his motorcycle without any interference. After putting on my helmet, he handed me the terrible sketch we’d had done, and I held on to it while we drove through traffic. I would have loved to squeeze tight to him, to put my head down on his back and close my eyes, just letting myself feel the speed and the wind. But I held on upright instead. We weren’t in a real relationship. It was almost businesslike, and coworkers didn’t squeeze each other intimately like that.
The ride home was so much less fun than the one there. Still, I’d spent the day in Paris, and I hadn’t had a terrible time. Parts of it h
ad been really fun, and I hadn’t anticipated that at all. I’d call it a win. Small incremental steps until I figured out what to do next so I never landed in this position again were the best I could hope for.
I’d lie so that maybe someday, I could tell the truth.
Yep…it still irked me and probably would for a long while.
We got off the bike at his home and made our way inside. He stopped me when I would have turned to go into the guest room. “I have a tendency to blow things up when they’re going well. Friendships. Shit like that. I had fun today. I hope you did, too.”
“I did. Until lunch.” Since I was trying for honesty, I let that just come out instead of trying to shield him from hurt, which was always going to be my instinct.
“Yeah.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t blame you on that. Tonight will probably not be a lot of laughs for you. The man I’m taking out, he’s been investing with us for ten years. Your dad needs his money to keep his numbers up. He’s not happy with the quarter we’ve had. Frankly, neither am I. But I have to keep going for now, and I have to keep him liking me so that when I split up with business, he stays with me.”
I nodded. “Right. So my role is to look pretty, let the people watching think we’re together, while letting you handle things the way you want to.”
“Exactly.” He let out a breath. Had he been worried I didn’t know how these games were played? I’d watched them for a long time. If it wasn’t high end finance, it was the music business, entertainment. Fashion. What did it matter? Everyone used everyone else. And right now, I was just in the middle of the deal that he had to land. Or re-land. He had to keep the deal he already had.
Like most things in life, relationships had to be managed.
Thinking of that, I took my phone out to look at my messages. “Don’t worry,” I didn’t look at him as I spoke, “I won’t embarrass you. I’ll be the best little silent date you’ve ever had. Is he French?”
Redhead On The Run (RedHeads Book 1) Page 12
