“But back to your question, the company gets several cases a month. I get maybe one every six weeks. I’m not the biggest go-getter there, so Sawyer and Tig tend to take more cases than I do.”
I could see her doing the math.
Trying to figure out my income, so she could understand why I, someone who made significantly less than she did, would offer to pay.
“Why were you given my case if you’re not a go-getter?” she asked, doing quotes with one hand.
“Because I knew more about psych hospitals. And the lifestyles of wealthy women.”
To that, her brow raised.
“What? Are you a sugar baby or something?”
I’d been asked that countless times before.
And the answer was always the same.
No.
I might have spent time with many a wealthy woman, and, sure, I’d take a glass of her wine when it was offered. But I always paid my own way. I paid both our ways if I was taking her out somewhere.
It wasn’t about the money.
“If I was a sugar baby, Miranda, would I have paid for dinner?” I reminded her.
“Fair enough. So you’ve dated wealthy women. Any that I might know?”
“Probably. And I think… ‘dating’ might be too strong a word,” I said.
“Oh,” she said, smile going a little saucy. “Not the commitment type?”
“Not so far,” I admitted.
“You’re, what, in your late thirties?” she asked. “How many wild oats do you have to sow?”
“Hey, it’s not my fault that the right woman hasn’t shown up in my life yet,” I said, shrugging.
“So you’re not planning on being a lifelong bachelor?”
“I always figured that might be my path. But then I watched my partners find their spouses has changed my ideas on that a bit.”
I always figured that variety was the spice of life. But there was just something about the way Sawyer and Riya and Tig and Kenzi looked at each other that made me start to want that as well.
That kind of pure, undiluted love and admiration? Yeah, that was something I was pretty sure I’d like to find in life.
“You? Are you married to work? Actually, while we are on that topic, a list of men you’ve seen over the past two years is probably a good idea,” I said.
“I am, to an extent, married to my work,” she admitted with a shrug. “My success is important to me. And not every man is understanding of that.”
That was a common complaint, unless you were dating someone in your social circle, in which case, that opened up a whole other world of problems.
“And the list?” I asked, reaching for my notepad.
“Oh, Michael Richardson,” she said, sighing.
“How’d that end?” I asked.
“Amicably. Two people who were so busy with work that we didn’t realize for a while that we just didn’t like each other,” she admitted.