“It’s not true. Did somebody tell you that? Because they’re wrong. I thought … I mean, you were so sweet to me at the conference, and you’ve been so great until now that I figured …”
“You figured.” He blows out a low whistle. “You still refuse to tell the truth.”
“I’m telling the truth.” There’s no choice but to get out of my chair since I won’t sit here and be stared at like I’m lower than street scum. So much for learning to enjoy the finer things in life. So much for telling my grandchildren one day while sitting on my yacht or whatever that I met their grandfather through the strangest of circumstances. “I’m sorry if you can’t get it through your head, but I’m not doing this to get a book deal from you. That wasn’t on my mind at all. And you know what else?”
I’m vibrating with rage now, gripping the table since I can’t grip his throat. “I feel sorry for you, period. You have to be so paranoid all the time. You have to jump to conclusions about people and be mean and cold because you think they’re using you. It means you’ve been used before, and that’s a shame. You seem like a nice person otherwise.”
“Thank you.” He smirks.
“I’m not sitting here and letting you abuse me when you’re completely off base,” I spit in his general direction before turning on the heel of a shoe this guy didn’t deserve to see. I can’t believe I broke out the Pradas for him.
“Hold on. Hold on.” He’s in front of me in a second, brow furrowed in confusion. “Are you serious? You didn’t do this to score a new deal?”
I fold my arms and glare up at him. “I didn’t do it to score a new deal. I’m not trying to use you. I admit, I wanted to meet you the other day. And I wanted you to ask me out.” Why not tell the truth now? I might as well.
His frown deepens. “Okay. So, why didn’t you bother to correct me when I praised your success?”
“Well, I mean, I used to be successful. I wasn’t about to give you a sob story about how bad things have gotten recently. I didn’t want you to think I was doing exactly what you just accused me of doing.”
“This has nothing to do with work then?” He places his hands on his hips, and now, the corners of his mouth are tugging upward. He’s trying not to smile.
I would hate to ruin that smile, but I’d rather not go through this again. It’s not an easy decision to make really. Because I want him to like me. I want this date to go well. And not only because of the book I’m supposed to write based on our interactions.
“Well, maybe just a little bit, and please, don’t get mad at me again,” I squeak in a tiny little voice, squinting until my eyes are practically closed. “I need to write something new. Something different. My editor’s sick of sweet romance, which is what I write. She suggested I … start dating around. Expand my horizons and all that.”
“So, she suggested you go out with me? To improve your writing?” He cocks an eyebrow. “That sounds … strangely wrong, but I can’t put my finger on it.”
“She didn’t suggest you in particular,” I sigh, throwing my hands into the air. “Just different men.”
He doesn’t need to hear the word sexcapades. That would take this night from a moderate disaster all the way to, like, the perfect storm of catastrophe.
“So, you’re doing this for your career, just not the way I thought.” He strokes his chin. “And you’re going to write about me?”
“Not you. Not even me. Two different characters, but … yes … based on …” I point to him and then myself, back and forth.
“Is it true you were asked to write dirtier books?” Now, he’s straight-up smiling. “Hey, when you’re the big boss, you can find out anything you want to know.”
“Oh. Oh!” My face basically bursts into flames. “We’re not—I mean—you know. I’m not trying to write about that sort of thing. We don’t have to …”
“Come on.” He snorts, taking my elbow. “Let’s sit down. I want to hear more about this. It might be the only thing I’ve had a good laugh about today.”
He’s in a better mood now, thank goodness. More like his usual self.
“I’ve pretty much told you all there is to know,” I sigh, sitting again. “My editor pointed out that my worldview is fairly limited. I can’t keep writing the same stories again and again—obviously, as proven by my latest book sales.”
I stop short of burying my face in my hands, only because I spent a lot of time on my makeup and hair and would rather not ruin both.
“I’m sorry things have gone downhill for you. Really, I am,” he insists when I shoot him a dirty look. “Like I said, my sister’s a huge fan, and she’s got good taste. Clearly, you have a big fan base or else you wouldn’t have already sold so many books.”
“The publishing world is fickle.”
“You’re telling me?” He leans back in his chair with a sigh. “At least we’re being up-front with each other now. That’s a relief. I would like to get to know the real Kitty, not the version of Kitty who feels like she needs to be prim and proper just because I own a few companies.”
“A few companies?” I have to giggle just a little. “Hating braggarts is one thing, but there’s such a thing as undervaluing yourself too much.”
“But you won’t deny, you were acting a little stiff and self-conscious.”
“Who doesn’t act that way on a first date, for Pete’s sake? And excuse me, but you’re the first wealthy man I’ve ever gone out with—no, even better, you’re the first wealthy man I’ve ever met. I mean, you’re a billionaire. With a B. There aren’t that many of you in the world.”
“I’m just Blake.” He spreads his hands. “What you see is what you get.”
“Keep telling yourself that.” I smirk. “It’s not that simple. You’re bound to make a girl uncomfortable, Blake Marlin. But not in a bad way. Never in a bad way.”
“In what way then?”
I cover my stomach with my hands and then flutter them around. “Like there’s butterflies in there.”
He smiles from ear to ear, and I notice his eyes are twinkling again. “That’s different. I wouldn’t want to think you were uncomfortable in other ways.”
“Just a minute ago, you were ready to rake me over the coals,” I remind him.
“Just a minute ago, I thought you were a mercenary, failing author who thought she could butter up the boss and convince him to pull strings for her.”
“Fair enough. Now? What do you think now?”
He at least pretends to think it over, tapping his chin and barely hiding a grin. “I think we need to order something to eat since I’ve had a hell of a long day, and I have to admit, I’ve been concerned about this dinner all throughout.”
“Same here,” I groan. Some of that fluttery feeling in my stomach is probably hunger.
“And I would love to hear more about this plan of yours to learn more about different men. Different types of men, I’d guess,” he adds. “I guess I’m just one of so many, bound to have their hearts broken in service of your career.”