He watched her picking at her food like she had gruel in front of her instead of top-notch cuisine. He knew she wasn’t one of those women who didn’t eat, so obviously something was bothering her. No doubt his earlier outburst over her opening her door hadn’t gone over well, but he hadn’t been able to help himself. Last night, it’d taken every bit of self-control not to lose it when he’d seen her blithely running along the streets of the neighborhood in the fucking dark. That asshole who’d dared to take a photo of her should be thanking the universe that all he’d ended up with was a broken phone. And then seeing that pervert Gerald leaving her door tonight . . .
God, Foster had gotten sick to his stomach instantly, flashes of that scum putting his hands on Cela, hurting her, had raced through his mind. Cela might not see it, but he’d seen how Gerald leered at her when she wasn’t looking. The guy was a sleazy predator—maybe a dormant one for now—but Foster’s gut told him that it’d only take the merest slice of opportunity to push Gerald back in that mode. He’d seen too many of Gerald’s kind in his life not to recognize it for what it was.
He set down his fork and took a sip of his iced tea. “So are you going to tell me what’s wrong or are you going to spend the rest of the evening rearranging your plate?”
Cela looked up, a bit startled, like she’d been caught in some secretive act. “What?”
“Well, tonight got off to a rocky start, I know, but you seem to be a million miles away. Tell me what’s going on.”
“This meal must be costing you a fortune,” she said bluntly.
Foster lifted a brow, the statement catching him off guard. “I’m not really concerned about that.”
She peered toward the rest of the restaurant as if worried someone would overhear them, then sighed. “See, that’s exactly the problem. One moment I feel so close to you, like we’ve known each other forever. Then the next, I feel like we’re strangers and that I don’t know you at all.”
The words settled like boulders in his stomach. “What are you talking about?”
She shook her head and looked down at her plate, drawing tracks in her mashed potatoes with the tines of her fork. “We did this backward. Chemistry and sex first, dating second. There’s so much I don’t know about you.”
He frowned, not sure what this had to do with the meal being expensive. “I’m not trying to hide anything, angel. You can know whatever you’d like.”
“Really?” she asked, lifting a hopeful gaze to his.
He shrugged. “Really.”
“Good. Then I have some questions.”
He leaned back in the seat, willing to be open but wary at where the conversation was going. “Such as?”
“Why do you live in our apartment complex when clearly you have the means to live someplace much nicer? Do you have to save money for alimony or child support or something? Have you ever been married? Do you have kids somewhere out there?”
He stared at her, stunned by the rapid-fire interrogation and the nature of her questions. It was as if he’d uncorked a shaken bottle of champagne and everything was spilling out at once. “You’re worried I have kids? Jesus, Cela. You don’t think I would’ve mentioned something as big as that?”
She dropped her fork onto her plate with a clink and gave him an exasperated look. “How am I supposed to know? You’re impossible to figure out sometimes. And I read all the stuff in that binder. I know how serious a decision this is—to be your”—she wet her lips and glanced toward the dining room again, lowering her voice—“submissive. I’m supposed to trust you with every part of me. How can I do that when there’s so much I don’t know about you?”
He nodded. “I get it. That’s fair.”
“So can you tell me those things?”
He sighed, understanding her desire to know everything, but not exactly looking forward to dredging up his past. “I can. No, I’ve never been married—though I did propose to someone once. She said no.”
She blanched a bit at that but covered it quickly.
“I have no children. And yes, I could afford to live somewhere else, but I live in the apartment with Pike because I own the building, and there’s no reason for me to live in some lavish house when I’ve got all I need there. Throwing wealth around is kind of my parents’ thing, not mine. Plus, it’s close to work.”
“Hold up,” she said, lifting her palm toward him. “You own the building?”
He took a sip of his water. “Yes. My grandmother used to, but she left it to me when she passed away. When I turned twenty-one that building and a number of other properties became mine. I was only five when she died so I think she was hoping I’d grow up to become a real-estate mogul or something.”
Cela made some noise in the back of her throat, like she couldn’t quite process that information. “So you’re like . . . wealthy?”
He laughed at the distaste with which she’d uttered the last word. “You say that like it’s a bad thing, angel. My business has done very well for me, and I also own a portion of my family’s estate. Most women would put that in their plus column.”
She shook her head, clearly a little dumbstruck by the knowledge, which surprised him. Besides living in a more modest place, he’d never hidden that fact. The furnishings in his place were high-end, his clothes tailored, and he drove a Mercedes SUV. Of course, unlike his parents, he didn’t have a driver and a cook or any of that nonsense that screamed Money! but he lived comfortably.
“I knew you were successful,” she said, almost to herself. “But wealthy is like . . . out there. Intimidating.”
“Oh, angel,” he said, amused. This was definitely a new reaction to his financial status. Most women, especially once they found out about his family, couldn’t think of much else. “I told you I owned a company.”