Page 95 of The Girlfriend Clause
A smile twitched at the corners of her lips. “No, you don’t.”
“A couple more minutes for you both, sir?” The waiter was hovering again.
“Sorry, please.” We were that couple who took too long to decide. Not that we were a couple. He nodded lightly, then left.
“I think I do.” I looked her dead in the eye. “Try me.”
“Oh, please. Trawling through my HR records doesn’tcount. And that’s probably a privacy breach, by the way, under the circumstances.”
“Andrea. This…CVtells me nothing.”
“Well. Yours is just as bad.” She surveyed me steadily. “Obviously, I know you’re the CEO of Novexia. And that you’re some sort of billionaire investor or whatever. I’ve met your brother. The other stuff on here”—she gestured to my folder—“education, business titles, company names… it’s just so… meh.”
“Meh? At least it’s relevant. Yours is just… fluff.”
“Fluff, is it? My preferences and tastes, what makes me tick? No wonder you’re still single.”
My jaw clenched. I was single by choice. She made it sound like I couldn’t keep a girlfriend if I wanted to. Like I was some sort of emotional cripple.
That hit a bit too close to the bone.
“I know you’re creative,” I said. By the looks of her face, I’d touched a nerve. “But instead of doing what you love—painting—it comes out in other ways. Ways it probably shouldn’t.” That should shut her up.
Andrea’s mouth dropped open.
“You’re fastidious about your environment. You run your home with surgical precision.”
Except, perhaps, for the airingcupboard.
“Oh, absolutely. I’m a paragon of domestic virtue. Please, do go on.” She waved me away with a smirk.
Fine.
“You’re very visual,” I continued, remembering the dick-swinging chat. “You think in pictures. But you’re stuck in a corporate cage. You don’t have the nerve to make a change so you cover your disappointment with sarcasm and humor. Am I close?”
The smirk evaporated. “I…”
“You have an oat milk latte in the morning, and a cup of tea in the afternoon—strong, one sugar, lots of milk.”
No need to mention the breath mint too, but I’d never forget Lady Lucinda’s.
“How do you—”
“You’re warm and funny,” I said. “And… I think you like taking care of things. People. Animals.”
Who else but Andrea would have a cat likethat?
“But authority”—I hesitated, twisting my glass by the stem—“that doesn’t sit comfortably with you, does it?”
As I knew only too well. Along with every other pale, stale male she’d worked for, probably.
Her lips parted, but nothing followed, as if the sentence had short-circuited her brain.
“And you’re a good actress,” I continued. “It’s what’s carried you through at Novexia. You can think on your feet. You’re smart.”
We both knew she wasn’t just slinging muffins. The self-deprecation was anact.
“Oh—”
