Still feeling self-conscious about letting Carter buy me an outfit, I tell him, “I think I should pay for this myself.”
Carter slows down, falling into step beside me and letting Chloe take the lead. “No,” he says, simply.
“You can’t veto me,” I tell him. “You’re not my boss, Carter Mahoney.”
“You don’t have the money. I do,” he says, simply. “Besides, I’m not even using my own money. I’m charging all this to my credit card. The bill goes to my father. Technically, my dad is buying you a new dress, and don’t you think that’s the least he could do after being so rude to you at breakfast?”
I do dislike his dad.
“I mean, all that shit he said about your misunderstanding with Jake?” Carter continues, shaking his head. “Guy’s a dick. Let him pay for it.”
Even though he’s right, I recognize his techniques as the same ones he used on Jake when Carter was trying to persuade him to do his bidding, even in spite of Jake’s best interest. Shaking my head at his second nature manipulation, I envision Carter’s future. Without any training, he’s already a shark. What kind of man will he be after an Ivy League law school teaches him new tips and tricks?
“What?” he asks, since I’m shaking my head at him.
“I just can’t decide if I should be envious of or feel bad for your future wife.”
Smiling, Carter drapes an arm around my shoulder. “I’m gonna marry you, remember? You don’t strike me as the type to spend a lot of time feeling sorry for yourself.”
“I won’t. Not even after our divorce when you’re shacking up with a 20-year-old yoga instructor,” I tell him, exaggerated pride dripping from my tone. “I’ll just take half of your shit in the divorce—the good half. I think we should buy a vacation home somewhere with a beach, that way I can lounge by the ocean with a hot young thing of my own. Even up the score, you know.”
“Of course. That seems fair.”
“Even though it’ll be your mid-life crisis that causes it, I’ll win the divorce,” I inform him.
“I don’t doubt it. Give it a month, I’ll be so annoyed at how well you’re doing without me—not to mention I’ll miss you so much—I’ll come crawling right back.”
Grinning over at him, I ask, “Do you crawl?”
“Well, no,” he admits. “But I’ll stride in, throw you over my shoulder caveman style, haul you to the bedroom, and reclaim you as my wife. That’s about as close to crawling as I can get.”
“Will you at least slouch?”
“Probably not. Gotta show your dumb fucking boyfriend what an imposing man I am. After I reclaim you in the bedroom, I’m gonna drown him in the ocean for daring to touch you,” he adds, casually.
“That seems reasonable. Do I get to kill the yoga instructor for touching you?”
“I already did. Thought I might have to, in order to atone for being such a massive douchebag.” Leaning close, he murmurs in my ear, “Turns out, the make-up sex was sufficient. Oh well.”
He’s crazy, but that he even manages to charm me in this jaded, imaginary scenario where I should hate him is as exasperating as it is endearing. I wrap my arm around his waist so I can lean in closer. “That’s why you’re my favorite sociopath,” I inform him.
His arm tightens around me and he jokes, “I better be. I’m not afraid to take out the competition.”
When we get to Porter’s, I’m really glad Carter made me get the dress. I tug at the hem absently as I walk beside him and Chloe into the lavish dining area. A neatly coiffed hostess in a black dress walks ahead of us, clutching menus to her chest. I steal glimpses here and there as we walk past tables and booths full of patrons, most of them in attire ranging from business-casual to cocktail. Even the few open tables in the room are set with bone-white plates, folded cloth napkins, and spotless clear goblets, maybe for water or wine.
There’s a silver-haired man in a tuxedo playing the piano along the back wall. Behind him, an entire floor-to-ceiling wall of wine bottles, like the inside of a well-stocked wine cellar, but on steroids.
“This place is beautiful,” I tell Carter.
Carter stops where the hostess halted and lets Chloe climb into the booth first. Glancing around with the casualness of someone already accustomed to the setting and unable to see its charm, he nods his head. “Yeah, it’s a nice place.”
“I want banana pudding,” Chloe informs us, her little brown eyes lit up with anticipation.
“For dessert,” Carter says. “As long as you finish your dinner.”
“But the pudding is the best! We should have dessert first, just in case we run out of room,” she informs him.
He shakes his head at her but doesn’t bother arguing. Instead, he looks back at me and catches me checking him out.