How should I broach this topic? Not romantically—we’re kind of past that. Not professionally, either. It seemed easy when I was playing it out in my head, but now that I’m alone with Emmett, I have no idea how to start.
“So. What do you want to talk about?” Emmett says, maneuvering onto La Cienega.
Guess he’s tired of waiting. I thought men preferred to avoid we-need-to-talk talks. “Well… I’ve been thinking…”
“About?”
“Everything since…you know, Friday.”
“Ah.” He nods thoughtfully. “Friday.”
“Anyway.” I clear my throat. “I’ve decided that—if you’re okay with it, of course—I’d, uh, be open to a very discreet fling.”
A short pause. “A fling?” A corner of his mouth quirks.
“A discreet fling. Discreet being the key word here.”
“Yeah, but you also said fling, which is more important.”
Of course that’s what he focused on. “Yes. I did say that. But there have to be some rules.”
“Okay.” He gestures at me to go ahead, his eyes on the road. “Give me the full disclosure.”
Feeling like those drug commercials that have to list all the side effects, I start in. But at a normal speed so Emmett can remember everything, not just what’s “important.” “For one, we have to be totally professional at work. And I mean totally. One hundred percent. Nobody can know we’re involved.”
He nods. “Goes without saying.”
“Good. I don’t want to be the topic of gossip.” Or have someone crow over winning that damn betting pool or some bullshit like that. Nobody’s going to make money off my sex life if I can help it.
“FYI, GrantEm doesn’t have a policy on interoffice dating, so long as there’s no HR complaint,” he says.
“I won’t file a complaint.” Then I move on to the second and final part. “No gifts. No dates.” That should keep things clean and simple, since this isn’t going to go anywhere with me leaving the firm in less than eight weeks. “Just sex.”
He gives me a sidelong glance. “What’s wrong with gifts and dates?”
I pause. “Why aren’t you focusing on ‘just sex’?”
“Oh, I’m focused on it. But gifts and dates are important, too.”
“Well, yeah, normally. But that isn’t our relationship.”
“Don’t treat me like one of your cheap, shitty ex-boyfriends.”
“I’m not!”
“If I want to buy you something nice, I should be free to. It’s my damn money.”
“You said all your money’s earmarked.” Why is he arguing when he’s going to get what he wants? He should just concentrate on “sex.”
“I can always reallocate. That’s the beauty of being a billionaire. I have lots of disposable funds to move around at my pleasure.”
“I don’t know why you’re being difficult. It isn’t like you aren’t used to being an asshole.” There. I said it while completely sober. I’m too peeved at his argumentative attitude to care if my choice of words pisses him off.
“I’m not an asshole.”
I snort. “You crushed at least two people on Friday alone.”
His eyes cut to me for a moment before going back to the road. “What? Who?”