My body starts tingling in places I didn’t know could tingle. “No, because then we’ll never eat.”
He gives a mock sigh, but lets me use the master bathroom alone. I change into my clothes from yesterday and put on some powder and lipstick from my purse. For once, I wish I’d taken Curie’s advice and carried a small makeup pouch with me. She’s big on that, saying you never know. But my complexion’s decent, and the lipstick does the trick, I think.
Court—because he’s a guy and lucky—just throws on a T-shirt and shorts after a quick shower of his own. He drives to a pretty place with bright wood interior. A couple of Asian chefs are laying slices of fish over bullet-shaped rice balls at an open counter set opposite the door as the hostess leads us to a table. The seating area of the restaurant is rectangular, with an elegant square stone garden in the center and a bamboo water fountain.
I get my favorite—maguro sashimi with a small side of seaweed salad, miso soup and steamed white rice. Court gets a basket of edamame and a huge deluxe nigiri sushi set—aptly named “Sumo”—that has thirty-six pieces of sushi.
The service is brisk and efficient. A woven basket full of freshly boiled and chilled soybeans in green pods comes out first. Court wasn’t kidding about being hungry, because he starts inhaling them like he’s in an eating competition. I barely touch a couple of pods before the basket’s half gone.
“If you want, I can pass your résumé around to some friends,” he says, finally coming up for air. “I know some people.”
For a fraction of a second, I’m tempted. If he puts in a good word with his buddies, the fact that I haven’t been promoted in four years might not be much of a factor. But I’ll be damned if I take a pity job. Stuff like that never stays quiet, and I’d rather die. “Thanks, but I really want to make this work on my own. I want to prove to Dad I don’t have to be a guy to do what needs be done.”
He smiles warmly. “Can’t argue with that. But if you change your mind, I’m always available.”
“I know.” I start to reach for his hand.
“Cooourt!”
The high-pitched squeal stills my hand. I turn and see a well-groomed redhead in a bright lemon tube dress rushing toward us—actually to Court. Her face is so well made up, it actually looks airbrushed, and her nails have glue-on stones that glitter.
“There you are!” The woman comes clopping up, somehow sounding like she’s running on cobblestones. “I thought you left town and totally panicked!” She laughs like she’s on helium.
Even though his mouth is still curved in a smile, a combination of annoyance and disgust fleets through Court’s eyes, as though he’s looking at a lump of dog poop some irresponsible owner left behind.
“Tiffany,” he says. “I thought you were busy job hunting. What are you doing here?”
“I am, but Daddy bought me lunch because he knows I love sushi.” She laughs and rolls her eyes. “I just can’t afford it here.”
“Right.” He nods.
My estimation of her is slowly going down, not that it started out that high anyway. I don’t like the way she puts her hand on his shoulder or leans so he has a better view of her overgrown frontal melons. Bitch. Doesn’t she realize he’s with me?
“So,” she says, “have you heard anything?”
Court, being a total gentleman, keeps his eyes on her face. “About…?”
“The job. Your dad never called me back.” She twists her body this way and that, the fabric over her Himalayan boobs stretching tighter. And she’s getting so close that they’re almost rubbing against him.
Oh geez. Is this how she plans to score a job at the company Court’s family runs? That’s…sad.
Tiffany continues, “I mean, he hinted it’d be great for me to work for you because you’re going to need an assistant—”
“I actually have zero desire to work,” Court says. “I plan to be as lazy as possible. As a matter of fact, I’m going to be a professional bum.”
The idea is so absurd that I almost burst out laughing. I can’t believe Court can deliver the line so seriously.
Tiffany actually does laugh. “I’m not talking about vacations, silly.”
“No. As permanent employment.” Court uses his hands to frame an imaginary floating billboard. “Can you see it? ‘Beach Bum Billionaire!’ Has a nice, alliterative ring, doesn’t it? Sadly, it isn’t the kind of position that requires an assistant.”
“But—”
“Tiff, you’re interrupting our date.” He glances at me meaningfully.
She finally turns toward me. Her eyes catalog me from head to toe—my hair, my face, my breasts and clothes. Then she dismisses me as though I’m no competition to her bottle-red hair, overly made-up face, huge tits and extra-tight dress.
I raise an eyebrow. At least my tits are real. And I don’t need to cajole a man for a job.