I need to let it go, get dressed, and get the hell out of Dodge. But I know what will happen. I’ll stew on his statement, wondering if he meant this or that or… Fuck! I want answers.
He hasn’t moved, his chest still angled over his knees, his hand curled around his scotch.
“Explain what you mean.” I retrace my steps, pausing a few feet away from the man responsible for my flighty state of mind. “Why am I the kind of woman a man marries?”
“You’re empathetic.” He meets my eyes. “The donation at the shelter. The arthritis prescription for who the hell knows? Your abhorrence of the diamond industry. Most women don’t even think about the blood shed for diamonds. They just want the ring—the one with the biggest price tag.” He swallows the last gulp of scotch and stares into the empty glass. “That kind of empathy translates into compassion, support, and encouragement toward your partner.”
My heart thuds, and my brain short-circuits. I’m not a religious person, but I feel the strong need to pray about this to whomever is listening.
“You’re intellectually challenging,” he says. “Straight-forward, honest, and genuine—all of which trumps shallow beauty. A physical relationship is…nice.” His lips form a sinful smirk and settle back into a frown. “But when a man meets a woman he can hold meaningful conversation with, he won’t tire of her. Ever.”
My mouth gapes, and I snap it shut. How do I process this? What the hell do I say? Thank you? Fuck you? My God, I’ve never met a more complicated, confusing man.
“To top it off, you’re…aesthetically pleasing.” His eyes roam over me, making me shiver. Then he grabs the bottle of scotch and refills his tumbler. “You take care of your body, which means you’ll take care of his.”
His. Some unnamed man who isn’t Trace.
“I’d bet my casino,” he says, “there isn’t a woman in the world more beautiful than you. I should know. I’ve been surrounded by beautiful women most of my life.”
“That’s enough.” I cross my arms over my chest, trembling with the need to cry or laugh or lose my fucking mind. “Why are you telling me this?”
“A man doesn’t fuck you without wanting more. Without wanting the long haul. But I’m not looking for forever. I’m not going to date you or fuck you or marry you.” He drinks from the tumbler, rolls the scotch around in his mouth. “It’s just not in the cards for us, sweetheart.”
His flippancy is needles dragging beneath my skin.
“I don’t understand,” I say.
“You’re in love with another man.”
And there it is. I straighten my spine, an attempt to belie the quiver in my chin. “He’s gone. He’s…not coming back.”
“Tell that to your heart. It missed the memo.”
Is that true? I’ve come so far in the last two years. I can go days, sometimes a week, without breaking down. And I can talk about him now. About his life. His death.
But I can’t remove his ring.
My fingers clench around it, and Trace zeroes in on the reflex.
I try to put myself in his position. If he was hung up with another woman, a woman he’d lost years ago, it would raise red flags. Maybe I’d admire his beauty from afar, but I wouldn’t pursue. Wouldn’t get attached.
“So that’s it.” The weight of resignation pushes down on my shoulders.
He wants me here because he likes to look at me. And brush my hair. And he thinks I’m interesting to talk to. I like to look at him, too, and I’d happily brush his hair. But talking to him is like walking along the rim of a volcano. Sometimes he’s quiet and tolerable. Sometimes he spews cruelty and ugliness.
My gaze drifts to the elevator. I don’t care if it’s three in the morning and pouring down rain. “I need to—”
“You’re not leaving,” he says sternly. “It’s the middle of the night.”
That’s fine, because if I’m going to continue to work here, we need to have another conversation. One that addresses the way he speaks to me.
I circle the trunk and sit on the couch a couple of feet from him, tucking my legs beneath me. “For a classy, top-notch executive, your manners leave a lot to be desired.”
He reclines back, balancing the tumbler on his thigh, his chest bare and eyes focused on me.
“The size of your bank account doesn’t make you classy,” I say. “It’s the dignity you carry yourself with and the respect you show to others. If you have an ugly attitude and belittle those around you, it doesn’t matter who designs your suits or how posh your penthouse is. None of it matters.” I harden my voice and give him firm eye contact. “If you want me to work with you and hang out with you, respect me. Respect my intelligence, and most of all, respect my feelings.”
He watches me for a moment, his pupils large and expression slack. “Do you put this much effort in everything you do?”
“In the things that are important, yes.”
“That’s remarkable. And rare.” Sincerity scratches through his voice. He sets the tumbler on the trunk, twists the cap closed on the bottle of scotch. Then he laces his fingers together between his spread knees and stares at his hands. “You strive for greatness without calculation or awareness that you’re doing it. That’s empowering. It inspires me to be a better version of myself.”
His praise tightens my chest and pulls my brows together. It makes me uncomfortable, but I’ll take it any day over his hurtful comments.
He lifts an arm along the back of the couch, beckoning me to slide beneath it. I shouldn’t give in to my desperate need for affection, not with this man. But a voice in the back of my mind urges me to live in the moment.
As I scoot across the cushions and rest my cheek on his chest, another inner voice whispers, How is this different than dating?
“Are you tired?” He grabs the remote and absently runs his fingers through my tangle-free hair.
“Wide awake.”
“Want to watch Dirty Dancing?”
I nod, and ten minutes into the movie, I tumble into sleep, fantasizing about dancing dirty with Trace Savoy.
Chapter Twelve
PRESENT
“Don’t get me wrong. The cuisine is superb.” A distinguished man with silver hair and a sharp suit corners me in the back of Trace’s restaurant. “But Chermoula mackerel isn’t the only thing I’m interested in eating tonight.”
I hear the come-on loud and clear. The man is old enough to be my father, and he’s staring at my chiffon belly dance skirt like he wants to tear through it. With his dick.
It’s closing time, and no one’s around to witness the confrontation. I’m tempted to head butt his leering look into next week. But I’m an employee here, and I take my job seriously.
“Thank you,” I say. “I’ll pass your feedback along to the owner.”
Speak of the devil. Here he comes, storming through the dining room in all his scowling glory. It’s after midnight, and Trace looks like a million bucks, all freshly starched and vibrating with energy in his charcoal suit. I just finished eight hours of dancing and feel like death slapped in glitter.