Still, I’m not so comfortable with it that I’m willing to go and open that door without some sort of assurance there’s nothing worth betting on inside the room.
The door opens and Irene comes out, saying, “What’s up? Are you guys leaving already?”
“Yeah,” I tell her. “Eric’s driving us home.”
“All right,” she says. “Hey, there’s something I wanted to tell you.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“The guy you’ve been texting,” she says. “There’s a reason why he told you he couldn’t show up tonight and it’s not what you think.”
“What is it that I think?” I ask, but revise the statement into, “Why couldn’t he show up?”
“That’s the thing,” she says. “He did.”
“He was here?” I ask.
“Still is,” she says. “I wanted to tell you, but I kind of got the vibe that he wanted to tell you himself or that maybe he wasn’t ready to let you know who he was for fear of something or other—I wasn’t really paying that much attention.”
“Who is it?” I ask.
“Do you really want to know?” she asks.
“Of course,” I tell her. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because it’s Eric,” she says.
I scoff as a reflex.
“No seriously,” I say. “Who is it?”
“Seriously,” she answers. “It’s Eric. I don’t know why he didn’t want to tell you before now, maybe it has something to do with the fact that you got Alec to quit from the last job—I don’t know. What I do know,” she says, “is that he likes you, so don’t be too mad at him for not coming clean. I think he’s just nervous about what you’ll think about him.”
“I’m not mad,” I tell her. “I’m confused. How long has he known that it was me he was talking to?”
“I’m not sure,” Irene answers, “but I know he knew before he got here today. Do me a favor, though, and don’t tell him that I told you? I really do think that he wanted to tell you himself.”
Eric.
The guy on the other end of the line, the one with all the fascinating things to say in our first conversation and all of the insight in every one since is the guy with whom I had serious and frequent disagreements with while he was working for me.
And he knew it was me.
My phone beeps.
“Is that him?” Irene chortles.
I look at the screen.
“Yep,” I tell her. “This just got really weird.”
“Yeah,” she says, “but he really is a great guy. At least hear him out—I’m sure he had a good reason why he didn’t tell you himself.”
“I guess we’re going to find out,” I tell her. “Anyway, I’m going to get a free ride back home before I do anything else.”
“All right,” Irene says and gives me a hug. “Thanks for coming. Oh, and on your way out, would you tell Alec that I’m having a little trouble hanging the chandelier?”
“I can help if you want,” I answer just moments before realizing that “hanging the chandelier” is code for “I’m in the mood for sex again.”
“I think I’d prefer it if he did,” she says, smiling. “Nothing personal, I assure you.”
“Yeah,” I laugh. “I got it.”
With that, I make my way back to Kristin and Eric, doing my best not to stare at him on my way.
“Are you ready to go?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Eric says.
Kristin nods.
I give Eric my keys and we leave the apartment, but not before I tell Alec about Irene’s problem with the chandelier.
* * *
Once we’re back at my apartment, Kristin makes a thin excuse and leaves in her own car, leaving me with Eric.
“Well,” he says, “I should probably go.”
“You can stick around for a little bit,” I tell him.
I’m not sure yet what to think of the fact that he wasn’t upfront about who he was once he realized I’m the one he’s been texting, but before anything else happens, I’d like to come to some sort of conclusion.
“I don’t know,” he says. “It’s getting kind of late.”
“Well, just keep me company for a little bit,” I tell him. “That is, if you want to.”
He looks at me and, with a modest smile, he nods.
“Great,” I tell him. “How’s the search for another job?”
“I’m looking, but things are still pretty sparse out there,” he answers.
“Would you like something to drink?” I ask.
“I probably shouldn’t,” he answers. “I still have to drive home tonight.”
“About that,” I start, “I was wondering if I could impose on you for something.”
“What’s that?” he asks.
Lie of omission or not, he was right about me needing some more help when it comes to training Cheryl. When I asked her what an assistant store manager was supposed to do, this look came over her face like I was drunk at the wheel, steering the ship into an iceberg.
“Well, I’m still struggling with training,” I tell him. “Part of me wants to hold on to as much as I possibly can while the other part wants to overcompensate and delegate everything to her. I’m sure there’s some kind of middle ground, but I’m having some serious trouble finding it.”
“I can probably do that for a couple of days,” he says, “but I really do need to focus on getting me and the guys another job.”
“Fair enough,” I say. “I was wondering if you could start tomorrow.”
He thinks about it for a moment.
“I guess I could do that,” he says, “but I won’t be able to do it full time, what with bidding on new projects and all.”
“All right,” I tell him. “So, how about that drink?”
“Wait, I thought you were closed on the weekends,” he says.
“I am,” I tell him, slowly making my way toward the kitchen until he gets the point and starts following me. “At least for now, but I want to get Cheryl prepared so she can start taking over some of my duties by Monday.”
“You know,” he says, “I’m really proud of you for being willing to change what wasn’t working for you. Not a lot of people are willing to do that.”
“Well,” I tell him, “like you said, if I don’t start delegating, the store’s either going to close or I’m going to end up burning out and, if I’m unable to learn to delegate before then, the store would close anyway, so it’s really by sheer survival that I’m doing it. I have beer or vodka.”
“Vodka,” he says. “I never really liked beer.”
“All right,” I say, pulling the vodka out of the freezer and setting it on the counter. “Did you want a shot or a mixed drink?”
“Surprise me,” he says. “To be honest, I’ve never been that good with shots, but I never know what to mix it with, so I really don’t drink that often.”
“Actually,” she says, “I think you’ve got that backward. If you drank more often, you would have figured out by now exactly what to mix your liquor with. Ice?”
“Sure,” he says.
I mix up a quick screwdriver, mostly for the fact that vodka and orange juice are the only non-water beverages I have in the house.
“So tell me something,” I start, trying to figure out how to say what I want to say.
“What’s that?” he asks.
“You’re single, right?”
“Yeah,” he says and I hand him his drink.
“What do you think makes a good relationship?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Trust, affection, respect…I think there are a lot of things that go into making a good relationship, but even with all of those things, I guess you never really know whether the other person is where you are with everything, so who knows?”
“Trust, huh?” I ask, but decide not to push the issue until I have some more information.
“Yeah,” he says. “The problem, like I said, is that yo
u never really know whether the other person is worthy of that trust. I guess that’s why we learn to trust people in the first place. Otherwise we’d all be paranoid of each other all the time. Still, I trusted Amy, enough to want to marry her, but that turned out to be pretty fucking stupid.”
“So, what would you do if you found yourself in a new relationship and you found out that your partner was hiding something from you?” I ask.
“Did you start dating someone recently?” he returns.
“No,” I tell him, “nothing like that. I guess I’m just curious. It’s been so long since I’ve had a real relationship that I’m just trying to figure out if I’d even be good in one.”
“I think you would,” he says, taking a drink. He swallows and wipes his mouth, adding, “I think your willingness to admit your own limitations should tell you that you’re ready for something more serious.”
“Is that what you want?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you just got out of a relationship that ended so badly, I’m just wondering if you still have faith that they can work,” I explain.
“Oh yeah,” he says. “All that crap aside, I think relationships have the potential to be wonderful things. The problem, in my view, is that so often, people get into something wanting to change the other person or thinking that it’s even possible to change another person without him or her being really ready and willing to do the work themselves. I think that’s what dooms most relationships. In the end, the person never really changes, so you either go into denial or you grow so resentful that you end up wanting to blow the whole thing up.”
“Is that what happened with you and Amy?” I ask.
“To be honest, I don’t know what happened with Amy and me. Alec keeps telling me that he saw something was wrong from the beginning, and to his credit, that’s true. The only thing is that with him, he thinks that anyone who’s not in at least a semi-open relationship isn’t doing it right,” he answers.
“So you’re the monogamous type?” I ask.
“I haven’t always been,” he answers, “but as I started growing up and seeing what it was that I actually wanted from a relationship, I realized that it wasn’t something I could really have with more than one person. I think relationships like the one Alec and Irene have are great for some people, but they’re not for everyone. They’re not for me.”
“Would you like another drink?” I ask him.
I’m not going to lie: I am trying to get him drunk. People tend to be more malleable when they’re intoxicated.
“Sure,” he says. “I hardly tasted the alcohol in that at all. Would you mind putting in a little bit more next time? When I can’t taste the booze in a drink, I always get worried that I’m going to end up drinking too much without knowing it.”
“Sounds like we both have control issues,” I tell him, taking his glass.
He chuckles. “Maybe so,” he says. “What about you?”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“You said that you’re single, but it sounds like you might have someone in mind. Anyone I know?” he asks.
Boy, he’s starting to push it. I don’t know if it’s the booze or if he’s actually trying to make his move, but I’m going to have to keep on my toes if I’m going to learn whatever it is I’m trying to learn.
“I don’t know,” I tell him coyly. “I guess I’m more open to the idea than I used to be, but I still think it would have to be on my terms.”
“What are your terms?” he asks.
“Well, like you,” I tell him, mixing the drink, “I think that honesty’s a must. I think I’d have a really hard time being with someone who would lie or knowingly withhold the truth from me.”
I wonder if he’ll get the hint and come clean.
“It’s an important quality,” he says. “What else?”
That’s a no.
“I’d want someone who doesn’t think of my ambitions as a liability,” I tell him. “Sure, I’m starting to delegate more and all that, but I still have a lot that I want to accomplish in my life, and if I were to start dating someone, I think they’d have to really be okay with that from the get-go.”
“I’ve always been really attracted to driven women,” he says. “I think it’s important for people to be passionate, to have things that they want to accomplish.”
“Is that why you took over your company?” I ask.
“Kind of,” he says. “I think the real reason is that it’s been in the family since my grandfather, and if I didn’t take it, it was going to go to someone else.”
“So you’re trying to keep the family business alive, then?” I ask, handing him his second drink, this one with not two, but three shots in it.
I’m going to get the truth out of him one way or another.
“I guess so,” he answers and takes a sip. “Shit, I think this might be a little far the other way.”
“Well,” I tell him, “the best we can do without wasting anything is for you to take a couple more drinks and then I’ll start filling it back up with orange juice.”
I think he’s starting to suspect that I’m digging for something, but the look on his face is hardly one of certainty.
“I guess my big drive in life has been to fulfill other people’s drives,” he says. “I’ve never really thought of it that way, but really, I am kind of living my father’s life.”
“Why not change it then?” I ask. “If I can make changes, I’m sure you can.”
“It’s not that simple,” he says. “José could very easily take over, but I’m really not in a position where I could afford to sell the company, and I don’t think he’s in a position where he could buy it.”
“What would it take for you to follow your dreams?” I ask.
“I don’t know that this isn’t my dream,” he answers and takes another gulp of his drink. I fill it back to the top with orange juice.
“I thought you said you were living your father’s life,” I respond.
“Yeah,” he says, “but my father had a great life. I mean, I don’t do everything that he’s done and I do a lot of things that he’d never dream of.”
“Like going home and getting drunk with your boss?” I ask.
“No,” he says, taking another sip, “that’s something he did all too much. That’s kind of what made things difficult with him and my mom.”
“Divorced?” I ask, but quickly add, “I’m sorry, that’s none of my business.”
“It’s fine,” he says. “They were talking about getting a divorce, but when mom came down with cancer, he did the right thing and stuck with her.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell him.
I’ve been trying to avoid thinking about the fact that my own mother has cancer, even though all indications point to her being fine. I can’t imagine what it must be like to actually lose a parent.
“It is what it is,” he says, taking a drink.
“Want another one?” I ask.
“I think I should probably slow down,” he says. “When it comes to liquor, I’m a cheap date.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I tell him, shooting for inscrutable.
“What about your parents?” he asks clumsily.
“What about them?” I return.
“Are they still together? I don’t know, that’s really none of my business. I just thought I’d—”
“They’re still together,” I tell him. I plan to stop there, but the juxtaposition of the cancer comment with his direct question regarding my parents is hitting me pretty hard. “My mom just found out that she has cancer and, to tell you the truth, I’m pretty freaked out about it.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “What kind does she have?”
“Chondrosarcoma,” I answer. “It affects bones and joints. From what I know, they didn’t exactly catch it as early as they would have liked, but it looks like her chances are pretty good.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” he says
.
“What kind did your mom have?” I ask. “Really, if you don’t want to talk about it, we can change the—”
“Cervical cancer,” he says. “When it happened, I was too young to know what that meant, but she never had a chance. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever gone through. If you ever want someone to talk to about your mom—not that she’s…you know,” he stammers, and I’m not sure if it’s the alcohol or the conversation.
So far, my search for clarity hasn’t provided very much in return.
“Thanks,” I tell him. “I might take you up on that. So, how about that drink?”
“You know what?” he starts. “I think I will have another one if you don’t mind. Not as strong as that last one, though.”
“I’m on it,” I tell him. While I’m fixing up his third drink in the last fifteen minutes, I start again, “You know, I really think that one of the things that’s most important in a new relationship is chemistry.”
“Yeah?” he asks.
I’m still pouring orange juice, so I don’t turn around, but I can hear the confusion in his voice.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “It’s weird how it can happen, too. You never know who’s going to end up giving off that spark, you know?”
“Yeah,” he says, leaning against the wall for support.
“I know when you and I started working together, I was almost sure something was going to happen between us,” I tell him.
Not really. I thought he was good looking but I knew better than to sleep with my contractor.
“Really?” he asks. “It’s funny, I thought the same thing.”
“Yeah?” I say, turning around and handing him his drink, this one with only a single shot in it.
“Yeah,” he says and takes a sip. “This one’s perfect, thanks.”
“What made you think that?” I ask.
“That something was going to happen with you and me?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I answer.
“Well, I was attracted to you physically for starters,” he says. “More importantly, though, when we started talking, it became very clear very fast that you seem to know what you want and what you have to do to get it. I guess I fantasized that, at some point, I might be one of the things that you’d want.”
His large pupils hold steady eye contact and I don’t know what to say. My hands feel clammy and my heart picks up speed.
Escort (A Standalone Romance Novel) (New York City Bad Boy Romance) Page 40