“Are you done?”
“Huh?”
She steps out from under my grasp, leaving my side in an instant. Hell, I kind of miss her tiny body tucked in close to mine. “First, don’t call me Jules. It’s Julia. And second, you wanted an example . . . right there. I knew if I didn’t give you one right off the bat, you would fill in the blank for me with your next words. Face it, Bram, you’re the cockiest of them all and don’t know how to be anything but that.”
With a quick smile, she spins on her heel and marches her tube sock-wearing feet across the quad, giving a flask-swigging Roark a wave and a smile before heading into a building. Why does he get her smile and I get her snarl?
Hell, she set me up, and I didn’t even see it coming. I’ve been bested, and fuck do I want to see if she can do it again. Not many college girls have challenged me, but this girl? Rath’s sister? She’s brilliant. Sardonic. And I like it.
Chapter Ten
JULIA
“Hey Jules.” Bram stands from his chair, wearing a three-piece navy blue suit, looking extremely handsome with his hair slightly styled to the side and a thick, expensive watch peeking past the cuffs of his sleeves.
Leaning forward, he presses his hand to my hip and brushes his lips across my cheek, his voice sultry when he says, “Thank you for meeting me here.” From the rumble of his voice in my ear in a very unexpected but intimate way, a sheer chill beats up my spine, one vertebrae at a time.
“Not a problem,” I answer even though the entire ride over here I was swearing up a storm, irritated that once again, I had to shuffle around New York City to work on my profile for Bram. When Linus called to tell me about Bram’s appointment, I almost cancelled the entire thing. That was until Linus said he made reservations at Chez Louis.
Rath threw me a birthday party here a few years ago, and all I could do was rave about how it’s my favorite place in the city to eat because they make the best eggplant parmesan. Either it’s a coincidence that we’re meeting here or Bram has some kind of insane memory, because I barely remember him being at the party.
“I took the liberty of ordering us both eggplant parm. I hope that’s okay. Thought you might be hungry since it’s an hour past lunch.”
I take my napkin from the plate and put it on my lap. I need water. The temperature in my body has spiked to an abnormal level, one I’m not comfortable with when I’m around this man.
I set my water glass down and twirl it a bit on the table until I’m ready to speak. “Eggplant parm is perfect. Thank you.” I reach for my bag. “Shall we get to work?”
“Sure, we can work until the food gets here.” He stretches his hands and moves his neck side to side, as if he’s getting ready for three rounds in the boxing ring.
Ignoring his warm-up, I position my notebook and questions, and take out one of my favorite pens, ready to take notes.
“Okay, let’s see. We talked about one-night stands.”
“We can talk more about that if you want.”
I eye him sharply. “I’d rather not.”
“All right, no need to give me the evil eye. Carry on.”
The condensation rolls off his water glass as he picks it up, wetting his long, thick fingers. From over the rim, he smirks at me and raises his eyebrows as he takes a sip, a longer pull of water than I would expect. When he sets his glass down, he asks, “Is there something on my face?”
“No, why?”
“Because you’re staring at me.”
Crap.
Uh, think of something to say that doesn’t admit he’s right . . . again.
“It’s called observation, Bram. It’s part of my job. Every little thing you do and say is a personality trait I need to know about.”
“Are you sure about that? Because it really seemed like you were just staring, taking in my good looks. You’ve always had a thing for my eyes.”
“What? No, I haven’t. Where the hell did you hear that?”
“Clarissa. She told me at your twenty-fifth birthday party. Told me you said my eyes are beautiful.” He singsongs the word beautiful, which automatically makes me want to punch him in the tooth.
“She was drunk.”
“Yeah, but being someone who reads people for a living, you would know booze brings out the truth in people.”
“And the idiocy,” I mumble to myself, pulling up the next question on my iPad. “Have you ever been in love?”
“No.” The certainty in his voice causes me to look up.
“Really?”
“Yeah. I’ve never been in love. What about you?”
“How many times do I have to tell you these questions aren’t about me?”
He mimics my irritation. “And how many times do I have to tell you I don’t care?” He nods his head at me. “Come on. I’ll give you an answer if you give me one.”
“You know I’m not the one going through the dating program, right?”
“Yup, doesn’t matter. I still want to hear your answer.” He leans forward and whispers. “Don’t worry, whatever you say is safe in my vault. I won’t tell your brother.”
“Ah, so you won’t run off to your boyfriend after this to tell him all the things I’ve tried to hide from him?”
He shakes his head. “Nope, your secret is safe with me, which is a huge risk on my end because if my mister finds out I’ve been holding back on him, he’s not going to be pleased.”
“There is something seriously wrong with you two.”
“I love him, and I’m not ashamed to say it.”
“Ha.” I point my finger at Bram. “You are in love. You just lied.”
He eclipses my hand with his large one, lowering it to the table. “Put your accusatory little finger away. You asked have I ever been IN love. I said no, because I haven’t. I’m not in love with your brother. I just love him, like I love my penis, and can’t live without it.”
Cue the giant eye-roll. This man, seriously. How he is a high-powered, well-respected real estate investment mogul in New York City is beyond me.
“Next question.”
“No way, you still haven’t answered the last question. Have you ever been in love, Jules?”
He’s not going to let this go, no matter how hard I try. There is no way of getting around his persistence so might as well give in to get everything over with.
Eyes trained on the paper before me, I shake my head. “No, I have not.”
“Not even with college douche boyfriend?” There is surprise in his voice.
I play with my pen, clicking it in and out, trying to fidget with anything that keeps my nerves at a simmer. “I might have thought I was in love back then, but I know that’s not the truth. It was lust. I can distinguish the two now.” I swallow hard and peek up at him. “And so you know, talking about this with you is very difficult. It’s not easy being a matchmaker who’s never been in love.”
“So why is that hard to say to me?”
“Because.” I blink a few times. I can’t believe I’m going to tell him this. “I’ve always tried to impress you, to make you think the best of me. You are capable of seeing right past my thin veil, and I’m sure you consider me a direct contradiction to my business, to my doctorate. I might be good at reading people, but I’m terrible at reading them for me.”
Bram reaches across the table and clasps his hand over mine, his thumb slowly making tiny circles over my skin, lighting me up from the inside with just a small stroke. Makes me want to pull my hand back, but I don’t. Weird.
“Jules, from day one, when you showed up to the frat party in overall shorts and white tube socks, I’ve been impressed, so much that I’ve felt intimidated. It took some huge balls to show up to a party like that, and I knew in that moment you were going to be a force to reckon with.”
“Because of tube socks?”
“All because of tube socks.”
* * *
“Are you all done, ma’am?” the waiter asks me, fingers poised and ready to ta
ke my plate.
I press my hand to my stomach and eye the completely empty plate. I devoured the eggplant parm like it was my job. “I am, thank you.”
From a relaxed position, one ankle crossed over his knee, hand gripping his water glass, Bram watches me intently, studying. If he didn’t know already the way I can take down a plate of eggplant parmesan, I’d think he was judging me, but I know that’s the furthest thing from the truth.
“Are you ready to jump back into the questions?”
“I am.” Before lunch, he removed his jacket and draped it behind him on his chair. Now he’s rolling up his sleeves, showing off a very impressive set of forearms that ripple with every move he makes. Rath has talked about Bram’s workout routine before, saying he doesn’t spend much time in the gym, but when he does, he goes balls to the walls—his terms, not mine—gets in and gets out. From the way his dress shirt stretches across his chest, I can see what Rath is talking about.
And I hate that I notice because the ogling has to stop. First of all, he’s a client. Second, it’s Bram. Obnoxious, annoying Bram, the same guy who has spent the last ten years frustrating me to no end.
I need to get these questions done and over with, set him up on a date, and move on.
“You should wear that color more often.” His voice cuts through the classical music strumming through the posh Italian restaurant.
I glance at my yellow blouse and then back at him. Bram leads a hectic life, yet he’s sitting here with me, taking his time and not rushing to get back to work, it would be easy to confuse his carefree posture with thinking this is exactly where he wants to be. As if he wants to spend all his time with me. He’s probably keen to find his woman and sick of this whole process.
“It’s pretty,” he adds.
A blush creeps up my cheeks; it feels like they just turned up the heat in this place. A light sheen of sweat hits me, and I reach for my water glass, trying to cool my internal temperature. What the hell is going on with me?
I’m going to blame it on Bram throwing me off course. I’m off my schedule. I don’t go out to meet with clients, they come to me, and he’s throwing me for a loop . . . like he always does. I’m structured and thoughtful, I make sure to weigh all my options before making decisions, and ever since I’ve known Bram, I’ve known him for being spontaneous, and it’s been a struggle for me to accept. Still to this day.
Quietly, I mumble a thank you and then wake up my iPad, where I start scrolling through the questions, silently looking them over.
When I formed these questions, there was a purpose—to find the most compatible matches—and even though they might seem invasive, they’ve done the job well so far. I can currently claim a ninety-two percent success rate at matching couples, have paid back fifty percent of my college loans, and should be able to employ another full-time employee in the next twelve months to help reduce my hours a little. Not bad for a thirty-one-year-old independent woman. So, I’ve never felt the need to re-evaluate my analysis questions.
Sitting here asking Bram the same questions I’ve been asking clients for a few years, for the first time since I started the What’s Your Color dating program, I feel embarrassed.
I want to skip them, breeze right past them, and for obvious reasons, I don’t want to hear the answers.
But Bram came to me to find love—so he says—and the only way I can truly do my job, and match him well, is to fill out his dating profile to the best of my ability. One of the reasons I ask these questions in person is so I can read the client’s body language. Computers can’t calculate body language, but I can, and reading people via multiple contexts is one of the factors that has ensured my success.
If it wasn’t important to impress Bram with what I’ve achieved, I would tell him to answer the questions on his own, or skip them altogether, but that’s not the case. Ever since I met Bram, I’ve wanted to show him I’m more than the quiet girl in the overalls he met so many years ago who needed help passing a class.
Maybe I want to impress him because Rath always speaks highly of Bram. Maybe it’s because Bram always seems to be right whenever I’m around him, or maybe because deep down I want to impress the most popular guy at Yale, the guy everyone knew, everyone loved . . . still loves.
Believe me, I know it’s an unhealthy obsession I have, to try to impress someone who before this I’ve maybe seen twice a year after college, but I don’t know, something about him stuck with me all these years.
And that “something” is the reason I’m going to need another cold glass of iced water.
“Okay, these next questions might be a little invasive—”
“More invasive than I’ve already answered?”
I slowly nod, keeping my eyes trained on the iPad in front of me, acting like I’m scrolling through the questions. “Unfortunately, yes, but it’s all part of the program, and trying to make sure I come up with the best match for you, intellectually and . . . physically.”
The stillness in the air between us breaks out a bead of sweat on my back as I casually glance up at him, meeting his narrowed eyes. “Physically? You go that deep, Jules?”
Oh God, why did he have to emphasize the word deep? Is he trying to make this as uncomfortable as possible?
Who am I kidding? Of course he is. That’s Bram. It’s not as though I haven’t interviewed gorgeous men before. New York is full of them. But this man is unraveling my normal detachment.
Squaring my shoulders, I sit tall and try to find my professionalism—and equilibrium—as I nod. “Yes. I don’t like to be wrong when I match people, so the more I know, the better. Now, do you mind if we continue?”
He works his jaw back and forth, his eyes focused on me, studying me carefully. “Yes, let’s move on.”
I let out a long breath. This could be way worse. I could be asking my brother these questions. I can be grateful that Bram lost the bet and not Rath. Or Roark for that matter, although, reading him and his personality might be interesting. I think any human behavioral specialist would want to look into Roark’s life, study his every move, because he’s a successful, self-made millionaire who has zero regard for business ethics or professionalism.
Moving to the first question, I jump right in. Pull off the Band-Aid. “Is sex important to you?”
“Very.” He doesn’t even skip a beat, twirling his cup on the table, his attention solely on me.
I nod. “On a scale from one to ten, how important?”
“Eleven.”
I glance at him and try to read his body language, but it hasn’t changed, which means he’s not even the slightest bit uncomfortable. Bram is a sexual creature. As I thought.
“Um, I’m just going to write ten.”
“Write what you want, Jules, but just make a note that sex is a huge part of my life.”
I act like I’m taking down a note when I offhandedly ask, “Why?”
“Because, I take pride in making women come.” He grows serious. “Work is work. I invest, I make money, and I do it all over again. There isn’t much to my job these days that excites me. Working out is another thing that I mindlessly do. I get the job done and move on. But sex, there are so many facets that go into it, and every woman is different, finding the key to their pleasure is something I take pride in.”
My mouth goes dry. Where is the damn waiter with a refill when I need one?
“But what happens when you’re monogamous? You know this isn’t a special form of Tinder, right? I’m not here to hook you up with a one-night stand.”
“Trust me, Jules, if I all I wanted was a one-night stand, I sure as hell wouldn’t be sitting here answering all of your questions.” His foot drops to the ground as he leans forward. “And when I’m monogamous with a woman, that’s something I take seriously, I will spend all my free time exploring every different way to make my girl come.” The word rolls off his tongue, smooth and soft, sending a bone-rattling chill straight through me.
“Would you like
a refill?” the waiter asks, finally.
Outstretched hand, I swerve my glass in his direction almost knocking the man in the leg. “Yes.”
The smirk that crosses Bram’s face not only irritates me, but it also proves one thing: he knows he has an effect on me.
* * *
We are powering through. That’s it. No more discussing. We are doing rapid-fire questions.
That’s what I tell myself.
I sip my glass of water. “What is your favorite sexual position?”
“I have to pick?”
“Yes.”
He scratches the side of his jaw, really contemplating his answer and I can’t help but wonder, how many sexual positions does he know? I’ve done one . . . but this isn’t about me.
“Hell, I don’t know.” He runs his hand through his hair, as if he’s truly in distress. “If I had to choose, I guess I’d have to choose . . .” He pauses. “Shit, uh”—he throws his hands in the air—“I can’t choose. I love them all.”
“Bram.”
“Nope, I’m not picking, and it really depends on the woman too. If she has an amazing ass, I want to take her from behind and then have her fuck me reverse cowgirl. But if her tits are amazing, I’m going to want to—”
“Forget I asked.” I hold up my hand. “Moving on.” I scan the next question and really hate myself right about now. “Do you mind going down on your partner.”
“Fucking love it. She can sit on my face whenever she wants.”
Jesus.
“And do you mind if your partner goes down on you?”
He gives me a pointed look. “What guy is going to say no to a blow job?”
“I just have to make sure.” I type away. “Are you open to exploring sexually with toys?”
“Hell yeah. And both ways—you know toys on me, toys on her, I’m cool with whatever.”
The Secret to Dating Your Best Friend’s Sister Page 8