Reluctantly Yours(27)

“Raspberry chocolate chunk cheesecake,” he repeats. “Is that your favorite ice cream flavor?”

“No, I made it up. Or maybe it does exist, but I wouldn’t select it out of the case if it were there. It’s a metaphor for something more elaborate than basic chocolate. I’m more of a cookie dough fan.”

He wrinkles his nose.

“You hate cookie dough ice cream?” I ask.

“Never had it.”

“What?” I can’t even with this guy. But then again, am I really surprised? “You’re missing out.”

“Not likely.”

“Let me guess, you’re a vanilla kind of guy?”

“I don’t eat ice cream,” he responds. I nearly fall out of my seat with this discovery, but then again, maybe it makes sense.

“I think that’s worse than being vanilla guy. At least vanilla guy is in the game.”

“What game is that?” he asks.

“The ice cream eating game. Your ice cream flavor says a lot about your personality. Vanilla guy is classic, and confident in what he likes. Sometimes he adds sprinkles if he’s feeling wild, but mostly enjoys his ice cream in a cone because he likes to keep things simple.”

Barrett smirks. “Sounds like you know this vanilla guy pretty well.”

I don’t need to tell Barrett about any guys that I do or do not know. Vanilla or not. We’re in a fake relationship so my sex life, or lack thereof, is not of his concern.

I busy myself with putting my laptop away, but now it’s just me and Barrett, staring at each other from across the table. Barrett’s doing that thing again where he’s obnoxiously quiet, yet completely comfortable. It makes me want to jump out of my chair. Where is that waiter?

“So, you want me to uncover the cases?” he says, finally.

“Yes.” I nod, pleased that my ice cream analogy was well received. “Pull back the paper and get out the tasting spoons.”

Barrett eyes me for a minute, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of his lips. “I’ve got an idea.”

He reaches for the paper which I continue to hold tight to. Barrett lifts his brows.

“Please?” He extends his hand.

Manners. What a treat. I finally hand it over.

Barrett uncaps his pen, then places the cap on the end. Why that simple movement makes my legs start to shake is unexplainable. Or completely obvious. It’s the same reaction I had when he signed the fundraiser check in his office last week.

Apparently, I’m horny for Barrett’s hands. They are sexy. They’re large, yet elegant. Can hands be elegant? Maybe it’s his long fingers or the way they look so fucking capable, and capable of fucking. Oh, shit. Do not think that. He might also be a mind reader. That could be why he’s silent a lot. He’s keeping the pathway open to be able to read other people’s thoughts. My cheeks heat and I wish I had my paper back so I could fold it into a fan. The accordion style you’d make at summer camp in arts and crafts.

I’m so distracted with calming myself down that when Barrett hands me back the paper I’m confused at what I’m looking at.

Barrett has added some language at the top that reads like a contract. It states that I will continue to pretend to be his girlfriend for business purposes until his deal with Fred is signed or for six weeks, whichever comes first, and in return he will grant me six conditions that can be added at any time. Below, there are six lines that Barrett has drawn on the page.

“Six weeks,” I say, noting the timeline. “Do you really think you’ll be able to close a deal with Fred in that time frame?”

“That’s not your concern, but yes. I know what I want and I know how to get it.”

“They can be anything?” I ask.

“No conditions on your conditions, with the exception of getting rid of the contract that requires you to be my girlfriend for business purposes. Other than that, it is up to you, but there are only six, so use them wisely.”

“You sound like a genie in a lamp.” I pause to think for a moment. “Why six?”

“One per week. Or you can use them as you choose.”

The waiter returns to take our order, but I’m confused when he sets down a bag on the table.

“Here is that order for you, sir.” The waiter turns to me, “Miss, what can I get for you?”

“What is that?” I ask.

Barrett stands, his chair scraping loudly on the cement patio.

“I can’t stay. I’ve got a meeting downtown.” He turns to the waiter, “Put her meal on my card.” Barrett hands him a fifty-dollar bill, then slides his gaze back to me to add, “I’ll be in touch.”

The waiter is excited about his tip, but when he reads my annoyance, his face turns guilty.

“Your boyfriend is super-hot,” he smiles, obviously thinking the compliment about Barrett’s looks will make me feel better about being ditched at lunch, then tucks the bill into his apron, “and generous.”

The playfulness I felt for a half second between us vanishes with Barrett’s abrupt departure. I need to remind myself of the situation. Barrett and I have a contract for me to be his fake girlfriend. He’s in it for himself. The very fact that he couldn’t take thirty minutes to eat a meal with me is evidence of that. Next time I start ogling his hands, I’ll need to remember that.