“Are you close with your family?”
“Yes,” he answers easily, and I curve my mouth. “Are you surprised by that?”
“Maybe.” I shrug. “I just don’t know that much about you, and what I do know, well, I always thought you were more of a Casanova than a family man.”
He sits back in his chair and rubs his jaw, as if thinking about what I just said. I get the feeling I offended him. I try to think back to the last few years to remember why I thought this.
His eyes narrow slightly as he tilts his head in question. “Why is that?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insinuate anything. I honestly thought so because of the way you are with women. You always find someone to flirt with at the bar after work. You date, and I’ve seen you stroll out of the office with enough bouquets of flowers to keep the florist in business, yet your relationships never last more than a few weeks. You have the characteristics of someone who doesn’t want marriage or intimacy, which is usually someone who doesn’t have a good view of family.”
He turns his glass in thought but doesn’t take his attention from me.
“Well, you know what they say when you assume.” He raises his eyebrows at me, and I know he’s back to his playful mood.
“You make an ass out of you and me,” I say with a grin.
“Exactly. You’re right about one thing though. My relationships don’t last more than two weeks.”
I lean in, dying to know the answer to a question I’ve had for years. “Why is that?”
“I don’t believe in stringing someone along. If the feelings aren’t there, then it’s not worth it,” he states, and I nod in agreement. His eyes narrow. “What, no comment from the peanut gallery?”
I shake my head. “Actually, it makes perfect sense. This whole time, I thought you just didn’t want a commitment. I never considered you might not be dating the right girls.”
He keeps his eyes locked with mine as he takes a sip of his drink.
I wait to see if he responds, but instead, he changes the subject completely. “Is there anything you don’t like about the holidays?” he asks.
“The pickup lines,” I say with a groan, which makes him smile, but he tilts his head in wonder. With an eye roll at myself at what I’m about to do, I lower my voice into a male octave, mimicking a guy. “Wanna see the North Pole? That’s what Mrs. Claus calls it,” I say.
He laughs out loud, like really laughs from his gut, and it sounds awesome, so I do another one.
“Your left leg is Thanksgiving, and your right leg is Christmas. Can I visit between the holidays?”
Hunter can’t help but lean back in his chair and laugh into his fist. “You’re fucking with me.”
I place my palm flat on the table and give him a deadpan expression. “Wish I was.”
We share a laugh, and it feels good.
Our first course comes—a mesclun salad over sautéed beans—and we fall into an easy conversation. While we’ve been friendly for two years, I realize I don’t know as much about Hunter as I thought. I know he was a college quarterback, he loves to travel on a whim, and he enjoys a good glass of whiskey, but I don’t know how he found himself in television.
“After I tore my knee, I was hired to be a sideline reporter for college football games. Eventually, I was producing my own pieces and found I liked being in charge behind the camera more than the guy in front of the lens. By the time I was twenty-nine, I was hired by Empire Media to executive-produce my own show.”
“An amazing feat, considering some people wait their whole careers to get that opportunity.”
He shrugs nonchalantly. “You just have to know who to sleep with.”
My eyes widen as my jaw drops.
“I’m kidding.” He laughs. “I’ve worked way too fucking hard to get to where I am. No tricks or shortcuts. Just good old-fashioned hard work.”
“No tricks at all?” I ask teasingly.
“Well, I’ve found if you exude confidence and enthusiasm, it opens doors. I never say no to a job, which has led to me taking on more than I can handle but I’d never admit it.”
“You just did.”
He lifts his glass. “That’s because I trust you.” He winks and takes a sip. “I never worry though, which seems to bother others. Everyone stresses way too much. All I want is to do a great job and say I love what I do at the end of the day.”
I smile at the notion. It sounds so simple.
“What about you?” he asks. “What’s the endgame for you? You want to be a career assistant?”
“Hell no. I have my sights set on research and development. I want to be the brains who comes up with show ideas for people like you to produce.”
“The master behind the madness.” He steals a cucumber off my plate. I scowl at him for taking it even though it doesn’t bother me in the slightest. “And you think working for Branson is the ticket?”
“I know so,” I state smugly before popping a cherry tomato into my mouth. “He has put me in charge of analyzing show ratings because my analysis is better than the outside firm Empire Media hires for input. I’m putting together a presentation on my findings for the shareholders.”
“You must be good if you’re being given that kind of opportunity.”
“I’m quite brilliant actually. If all goes well, when there’s an opening, it will hopefully be mine.”
“Well, look at you.”
He holds his glass up to me in congratulations. We clink and take sips.
For an impromptu dinner, it’s turning out to be a really great evening. I haven’t been on a decent date in a while. Not that this is a date. I should probably tell the old woman at the table next to us, who keeps looking over at us with heart eyes. Her nod tells me she approves of my dinner companion. I grin and bite my lip as I try not to laugh. Hunter looks at me and then to the woman who has stolen my attention, seemingly in wonder to what I’m giggling about.
“So, tell me, do you miss it?” I ask, trying to bring the conversation back to our table. “Playing ball, I mean.”
“In some ways. I’m mostly thankful for what the sport taught me and the success it’s brought me in my career today. I know strategy and how to be a team player. I don’t give up easily, and since I’ve been inside the head of an athlete, I know how to tell their stories on-screen.”
“That’s really beautiful,” I muse with a grin. “There’s no I in team.”
He nods and smiles at my aphorism. “Something like that.”
“Well, I, for one, am not the team sports type. I know; surprise, surprise. Book nerd all the way.”
Leaning off his chair, he appraises my body. “You’re actually quite fit.”
I burst out laughing at his use of the word fit. When he raises his hands in question, I explain, “Fit is actually British slang for sexy. You’d use it when you’re describing someone you’re attracted to.”
With a chagrin, he responds, “Yeah, you’re fit.”
And now, I’m blushing.
As the dinner course is served, I tell Hunter about my college days. I moved to Manhattan from my small town in Ohio two years ago wanting to work for a major television network. I started as a page at Empire Media and slowly worked my way up to assistant.