Page 2 of Fifth Avenue Flirt

I’ve usually always got a reason why I’d want to know someone better. But Avril’s different. I want to know her more, but not because I think she’ll be useful—she might be, I have no idea. No, the reason I want to know Avril better is because she surprised me several times tonight in the space of about two and a half minutes. That doesn’t happen to me very often.

Or ever.

As the guests head into the dining room, I ensure I’m not too far behind Avril. She makes her way along the table, looking at the place cards. I see mine immediately, near Deacon and Aurora, but I scoop it up.

Avril’s talking to the man on her right and doesn’t notice me sliding into the chair next to hers. I nod and smile at the woman opposite me—it’s the one who said Avril had just been dumped. Before anyone notices I’m not where I’m supposed to be, I surreptitiously take the place card in front of me and slip it into my pocket and put mine in its place. Poor Ray will have to find someone else to sit next to.

When Avril finishes her conversation with her neighbor, she shifts in her seat and realizes I’m sitting next to her.

“Oh, it’s you again. The cheesy guy.”

From deep inside me, there’s a pull. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt it before. Maybe it’s a red flag—a warning that the woman next to me is trouble. But for her, I’m not sure I mind getting into trouble.

“It’s me,” I reply. “Don’t worry. By the end of the evening, you’ll find me completely charming.”

“Well, the waiters have been instructed to keep the wine glasses topped up, so you never know.”

I laugh. “So you own this hotel?”

“With my brother and sister. You’ve met my sister, and roommate, Poppy.” She lifts her chin toward the woman opposite me.

“Oh, I didn’t realize you were related.”

“Worth isn’t here tonight.”

My brain starts to put pieces of information together in my brain. “Worth? Huntington?”

“Yes. Don’t tell me, you know him. Everyone knows him.”

I grin. I’m usually the guy described as the man everyone knows. But I’m happy for Avril to think it’s her brother. “Yes, I know Worth. Good guy.”

“So, how do you keep busy?” she asks me. “Do you work, or try to outspend the compounding interest on your trust fund?”

I hold her gaze, wondering what to say next. “I don’t have a trust fund,” I say eventually.

She tilts her head. “Huh. I can’t decide whether that’s disappointing or not.” Her lips are pouty and ripe, and I try to ignore the urge to swipe my thumb over them.

All in good time.

“Because you only like to sit next to people at dinner who have a trust fund?” I ask, trying to clarify her comment. There are plenty of women who are only interested in wealthy men in New York City. I’ve found it doesn’t really matter if your money is generational or not. As long as you have lots of it.

“No, because I usually get the measure of someone quite quickly. The cheesy guys usually have trust funds.”

I shoot her a smile. “Here I am, breaking molds.”

“So if you don’t have a trust fund, how do you pay your rent? Or do you live in your car?”

It’s like she physically hit me.

How could she know that I’ve lived in a car? I do a mental check. I’m wearing an expensive suit, shoes, watch. Even my haircut cost me three hundred and fifty dollars. I’m as old money as new money can be. How could she tell that at ten years old, my family and I spent three weeks living in our car?

“I assume you’re”—she makes air quotes—“in finance.”

It brings me back to the moment. Of course she doesn’t have any clue that I’ve ever had to use the bathrooms in McDonald’s to wash my face before school. She was making a joke.

“I work for myself,” I say. “I help the needy.”

She bursts out laughing. “You do not. Not with that suit and no trust fund.”