She apparently reads my thoughts, because she starts worrying her lip. “That’s what makes you such a great guy,” she says. “You remember that time in Maui when I told you my dad was going to poison you and asked for a waiver? It was a joke and all, but you wrote one and didn’t even have to think about picking the Make-A-Wish Foundation as the charity would get all your money. I thought it said a lot about you.”
“Oh,” I say, slightly mollified. “Still, that doesn’t seem like much of a skill. ‘I’m a likable dude who can make people happy’ isn’t something you can feature prominently in a résumé or anything. Is it?”
“It’s not like you need a job!” Then she pauses and leans closer. “Do you?”
I stiffen, vaguely insulted. “Of course not. I’m not dumb enough to have blown my entire fortune already.”
“You know that isn’t what I meant. The world needs more happiness, and you have the money and connections to make a difference. And unlike some people, you actually do care.” She lets out a short breath. “Not everyone needs a job. Some people should just go out and change the world. I have faith that you’ll find a perfect way to do that.”
The sincerity in her tone touches the core of my heart. A tide of emotions floods me until I can’t find the words to get past it. Finally, I let out a shuddering breath. “It’s you who do that for me—make me happy and whole. I wouldn’t be the guy who makes people happy without you around.”
Shaking her head, she reaches out and holds my hand. “You need to give yourself more credit. If you weren’t a good, decent guy deep inside, you would’ve stayed the not-good guy, no matter who you were with. People don’t change just because they’re around someone.”
That’s incredibly sweet and loving of her, and I don’t correct her even though she isn’t entirely right. She makes me want to be better. She makes me want to change the world for her.
“You don’t look convinced,” she says. “Let me give you an example that’s easier to understand. Let’s say I was frigid.”
“Frigid?” I still have the indentations from her nails last night. And I need to see a doctor to check my ears, because boy does she scream. Not that I mind especially. “No pain, no gain” and all that.
A well-manicured finger goes up to halt my less-than-cooperative thinking process. “It’s a hypothetical. Let’s just go with it, shall we?”
“Okay. You’re more frigid than tits on a yeti. And?”
“What I’m saying is, if I were a naturally frigid person, I’d stay frigid no matter who I was with.”
“Whatever. I’d change you.”
“No, you wouldn’t have unless I were a sensual person deep inside. Contrary to male fantasy, no man has a magic penis that cures all female sexual dysfunctions.”
“I never said all female sexual dysfunctions,” I say, although I did have this particular expectation at one point in my life. “Just yours.” I point my fork in her direction.
She cocks an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?” Her gaze drops below the tabletop to the V between my legs. “You’re the magic man, huh?”
“You thought last night was pretty magical.” I smirk. “And not just down there. You said my tongue was magical too.”
“Don’t recall that. I was distracted, thinking about my new job,” she says in a prim, teasing tone.
“Then maybe I should prove it to you again when you aren’t distracted about your new job.”
Her eyes are bright with humor. And a spark of excitement. “Maybe you should, although I don’t know how you can top your claimed super-ultra-magical effort last night.”
“Leave that part to me, oh ye skeptic.”
Chapter Forty-Four
Court
On Thursday, when Nate calls me to have lunch at Virgo—plus it being his treat—I know something’s up.
Virgo is a luxurious new Spanish bistro Mark Pryce—the guy who owns both La Mer and Éternité—opened a few months ago. Virgo is supposedly less exclusive, but everyone who can’t get a table at La Mer or Éternité comes, so it’s crowded anyway.
“What do you want?” I ask the moment I park my ass opposite Nate at a table.
“Geez, man. I gotta want something to ask you to lunch?” he says.
“Normally no, but you’re drinking.” Amber color. Must be scotch, his choice of poison when he’s happy or upset. “And you look grim.”
His mouth forms a curve that could be called a smile if you’re stretching the definition the way high-priced lawyers twist the Constitution. “No I don’t.”