“Son of a bitch.” I chuckle. “You are!”
His stare grows colder. “And you? Are you going to go in, or stand out here all day running your lips?”
“Nah. I was just out for a stroll.”
“Well, exercise time is over. I’ll take you to your car.”
Normally I would refuse. But since my Ferrari’s several miles away—much farther than he’s expecting—I say, “Sure. Why not?”
Once we’re both in his Bentley, I tell him where my car is. He narrows his eyes. “That’s at least fifteen blocks away.”
I give him my most angelic smile. “You did offer…”
He starts driving. He stays just below the speed limit, which reminds me of an octogenarian with oversized knuckles white around the steering wheel.
“What happened to your Lamborghini?” I ask.
“I got bored with it.”
I raise my eyebrows. He loves that car more than anything else in the world. If he could, he would’ve married the thing.
“So, you and Paige are going to split,” Dane says, his eyes on the road. “True, or gossip rag bullshit?”
“Jeez. Have you been stalking me?”
“Hardly. I can’t get away from you.” His mouth curls in distaste. “It’s all over the news, for one.”
I say nothing. Paige’s and my situation is just too painful and raw to talk about…especially to someone like Dane, who has the emotional range of a can opener.
“So it’s true.” He sighs at an idiot who cuts him off. But then he shouldn’t be driving like an old woman if he doesn’t want to be dissed on the road. “Was it your decision?”
“Does it matter?”
“I see. Not your decision. Well, if you want her, take her.”
I choke. “I’m not a rapist.”
“Then convince her,” he says, like I’m the biggest idiot in the world.
“Easier said than done.”
“My advice,” Dane says, “is to get out of L.A. Both of you are under a microscope here. Go to the family vacation home in the Maldives. Or the one in Thailand. Or Tahiti. If the idiot media follow you in a helicopter, shoot it down. That’s what guards are for. Then, once you’re alone with her, convince Paige that you’re not a total loss.” He drives on, inscrutable behind his sunglasses. “Or, second option: sit by and watch her marry some other sap, go live in a home with a white-picket fence, have two point three children and drive a gently used minivan.”
I stare at him, feeling like I’m in a Twilight Zone episode. Getting relationship advice from Dane is like getting lessons on how to be a moral, upstanding citizen from Ted Bundy.
“They might even get a dog,” Dane adds, scowling now as though that’s the most offensive possibility out of all the ones he’s listed.
I don’t know how to respond. He’s actually trying to help out. “Why are you bothering to give me advice? You don’t even like me.”
“Beside the point,” he says.
“No, seriously. Why?”
He glances my way for a fraction of a second. “Grandma Shirley wanted me to.”
“Are you kidding? Grandma Shirley hated me.”
“No. She worried about you because you aren’t particularly bright or cool-headed. Being emotional is a terrible handicap.”