“It’s not that he wants me to. I want to. Because that’s his dream retirement home, and he deserves it. I ran the numbers. I’ll be able to afford it.”
“Huh.” Emmett looks like a college freshman listening to a lecture on how to valuate a startup. Fascinated, but a little surprised and confused.
“Don’t you want to do things for your parents when they do something really nice for you?” I ask, taking pity on him.
He looks like he wants to shake his head, but doesn’t go through with it. “No… But I buy them presents for important occasions, like birthdays and Christmas.” He might as well be talking about having to vacuum a particularly shaggy rug.
Which is weird. He sounded like he cares about his mother. Is this about his dad? Like if his dad took off like my mom… But I know he didn’t. Ted Lasker is a famous movie producer, and he’s right here in Hollywood. He also acknowledged all his children, and—based on articles about Emmett’s background—gave them the best childhood money could buy.
Our waiter comes with our food, set on elegant white china. The French toast looks amazing, all golden fluffiness. It smells even better, reminding me that I didn’t have dinner last night. My mouth waters.
Suddenly starving, I dig in. I focus on eating, doing my best to not think too deeply about Emmett’s personal life. Why should I be interested, anyway? I’m going to be gone soon. I drink my Dom, which tastes like liquid gold, silently toasting to this successful nonsexual interaction with my boss.
“Can I ask you something?” Emmett says suddenly. “I couldn’t figure this out on my own.”
“There’s something you can’t figure out?” What could it possibly be? How to be a good boss? How to develop a warm, caring heart?
“It happens occasionally,” he says blandly.
“But you’re a god of finance. Everyone says so.” So ask yourself, rather than a mere mortal like me.
“It’s not about work.”
Shocking that something other than work would bother him enough to cause him to ask.
“You mumbled something about it at the bar, but I want to talk about it while you’re sober and actually going to remember what comes out of your mouth.”
“Okay,” I say warily. What wouldn’t I give to remember exactly what I told him last night!
He looks at me straight, like he doesn’t just want to look into my eyes but into my mind. “Why were you dating that guy?”
“I don’t understand what you’re asking.” Ex-boyfriends aren’t to be analyzed. They’re to be put into a mental tar pit, to sink into the ooze and never be thought about again.
“That guy who came to the office. He must’ve had something going for him for you to date him. Some…aspect.”
“Why do you want to know?” From anybody else, I might think it was sheer curiosity. With Emmett, I can sense landmines. Lots and lots of landmines.
“Just curious. I thought he was kinda awful.”
My hackles rise. Not because I disagree with Emmett’s judgment of Rick, but because it feels like he’s judging my judgment. “Well. He wasn’t this awful when we first started going out. He was better than the boyfriends I’d had before.”
“Where did you find these guys? In a dumpster?”
“I just…met them,” I say. “Not every person you date is going to be Mr. Right.”
“You can do better. You’re at least a nine.”
Wow. I didn’t know I rated that high. “Thank you…I think.”
“That means you can have men who are a nine or ten or better.”
“Ten or better? What’s the scale here?”
“One to ten.”
“So…?”
“Some guys get extra credit.”