He continues, “What’s your favorite food? Of all time?”.
“Mint-chip ice cream.”
He nods with understanding. “Savory food?”
“What’s with the nod?”
“Mine too.”
“Really?”
“Why is that surprising?”
“I don’t know. It is the best flavor. But you don’t seem like someone who orders something obvious.”
He holds up his gin and tonic. “Who cares if it’s obvious if it’s the best?”
A good counter. I’m making too many assumptions. Sure, Ian is a rich British guy. But he’s also bringing me to fancy restaurants.
He doesn’t care if people judge him for a companion with teal hair and combat boots. Maybe he doesn’t care about appearances.
“No one wants to feel average,” I say.
“Not average. But a lot of people want to blend.” His eyes flit from my dress to my hair. Then they’re on my eyes. “You don’t.”
“Maybe this is another way I blend? The bitchy punk chick.”
“Are you bitchy?”
“Only to assholes.”
He chuckles. “Does it bother you? When people see you that way?”
“Sometimes.”
“You must make an effort. The hair, the makeup, the outfits.” His eyes pass over me slowly. Savoring every inch. “I suppose goth sexpot isn’t exactly your aim.”
“I happen to be pale. I was at the beach all weekend and nothing.” I pull my dress strap aside just enough to show off my hint of a tan line. Pale versus very pale.
He chuckles. “You look put together.”
“Are you into goth sexpots?”
“Only if you’ll start quoting Edgar Allan Poe.”
I shake my head. Let my lips curl into a smile. He’s funny. Really funny. And it’s easy talking to him. Way too easy.
“I can’t imagine you prefer ‘punk rock sexpot.'”
“If I have to be some kind of sexpot, I prefer punk rock.” My hands go to the edge of my skirt instinctively. “I guess… the sex appeal varies. It’s necessary at a bar. For tips. And there were times when I wanted to play it up. Like a normal high school girl who wanted attention from boys. Now… I don’t know.”
“You want me to desire you?”
“Don’t you?”
“Yes.” His eyes pass over me slowly. “You can still want it.”
“Do you?” I clear my throat. “Want me to desire you?”
“You do. But yes. Of course.”
“It’s not something guys talk about. Not to me, at least. Even now, with people more evolved, men think women should entice them. They think it’s all about satisfying their desire.”
“Are people more evolved?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I’ve only been alive so long.”
“That’s the second reminder of your age in a few minutes.”
“Is it?”
He nods. “Does it bother you?”
“Maybe.” Not as much as it should. I like it more than I should. I like that he’s older. Worldly. Experienced.
“A part of you likes it?”
“If you say daddy issues, I’ll throw this in your face.”
His laugh is easy. “Do you have a strained relationship with your father?”
“That’s very close.” I hold up the drink. A playful threat. “I might do it anyway.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t ask you to call me Daddy.”
My cheeks flush.
“It’s not my kink. But you can. If you want.”
“If I want?”
He nods. “There’s no shame in wanting someone to take care of you. Especially if you’ve never had that. Especially if you’re usually taking care of the world.”
It’s like he’s reading my mind. The information he got looking me up? Or something about my presence here? Maybe he just knows why women want him. Knows what role he wants to fill. “Am I that obvious?”
He doesn’t answer. “Is that what you want?”
“Yes,” I swallow hard.
“Good.” He says it with pride. Pride I need. “I want to take care of you. In every way possible.”
“You mean sex?”
“When you’re ready.”
“What if I am?”
“What did I tell you?”
“I have to earn that?”
He nods exactly.
“Have I?”
“Is that an offer?”
I bite my lip.
“I want to touch you, Eve. I want to pull you into my lap and stroke you until you come. But only if you’re ready.” His eyes meet mine. “Are you?”
Chapter Eighteen
Eve
No.
Not yet.
I excuse myself. To the bathroom. I fix my makeup. Return to a fresh drink. And Ian ordering dinner.
The dish he orders is perfect.
Frutti di mare. With extra oregano.
A balance of chewy pasta, fresh tomato, seafood, herbs.
Everything I like. And expensive to boot. I didn’t even know food could taste this expensive.
There are four kinds of shellfish. Enough, the dish is hands on. But there’s something I like about that too. The crunch is satisfying. Primal.
The sun sinks into the horizon, turning the sky orange, then blue. Then that perfect indigo that only exists in New York.
The city lights up. Yellow bulbs against the dark sky. Moonlight. Steel and glass.
The totally and completely overwhelming presence of Ian Hunt.
He asks about my plans for the summer. During my thirty days—supposedly, he wants to give me plenty of latitude—and after.
The month of freedom before I start school.
It’s hard to contemplate. I can’t remember the last time I had a month to myself. With the spare cash to actually enjoy it.