"Why are you here?" I rephrase my earlier question. "On one hand, you're saying this is purely for research, but on the other, you told Belinda - and me - that you're in this for real. What's your deal?"
She bites her lower lip and reaches for her safety net, the almost empty flute of champagne. I would order her another one, but not until we've eaten something. I don't want her to make any decisions while intoxicated.
"You're right, that was misleading," she admits. "I just wanted to point out that... this is not what I do. Not what I normally do."
"Why?"
The confusion on her face intensifies.
"Why are you so set on making sure that I don't mistake you for a professional escort?" I clarify. "What would be so bad about that? And why do you even care what I think about you? I'm here because I want to buy you. Doesn't that pretty much set the stage for our relationship?"
She furrows her eyebrows. "Relationship?"
I give her a little smirk, knowing that my words have already started a thinking process inside that pretty head. She knows what's coming; she knows that I'm about to call her out on prejudices she never knew she had.
"You seem to have a very limited understanding of the word if you don't think we'd be entering into a relationship if both of us agree to this deal," I say. "Relationships can take many forms, some of which are very different from the romantic kind you may be familiar with."
"Sure. Of course I know that," she retorts, her tone sounding pissed. "I just didn't expect the word to be used for... this."
I know there's a hint of condescension in the way I'm smiling at her now, and it makes her furious. She's about to say something, but we're interrupted by the waiter delivering the first two plates of appetizers I ordered. The way she's eyeing the plate tells me that she's hungrier than she wanted to let on. Typical. While it is to a degree flattering, I will never understand why most women prefer to pretend they don't need food to survive, ever, and avoid eating in my presence.
"Toasted brioche rounds with their house-made crème fraiche and some caviar," I explain, pointing toward the dish.
"Fancy," Ann comments, trying to appear unimpressed.
I expect her to pick at the food like a sparrow because that's what most women do when I take them out for dinner. But it seems Ann worries less about artificial appearances than I thought she would. Instead of picking at the tiny brioches, she picks one up and stuffs it into her mouth in one piece. She chews with gusto and her cheeks balloon like a hamster.
Now I'm the one fighting to hold back a reaction from her. There's an adorable innocence about the way she eats, something that clashes with her otherwise strict and reserved behavior.
"Good, huh?"
She nods eagerly, and remembers just in time that her mouth is still stuffed with food before giving me a reply.
"I've never had caviar before," she says. "Didn't think I'd like it."
"Sometimes it's not about the ingredients itself, but what you do with them," I tell her. "I've noticed that it’s similar with women."
Her face darkens as she looks at me with angry confusion. "What do you mean by that?"
"Do you think you can know all about what or who a person is or can be when you first meet them?" I ask. "See all their facets? Imagine everything they're capable of?"
Her gray-blue eyes lock onto mine for a few moments before she slowly shakes her head no.
"I don't think so," she says. "But it does make me wonder: do you see women as ingredients?"
She narrows her eyes and fixates her attention on me, holding me in a place with a gaze that would be intimidating, if I lacked confidence in my words.
"You focus on the wrong things," I tell her. "You focus on words, not the meaning behind them."
The frown on her face grows bigger. "Would you care to elaborate?"
I nod.
"When you first meet a person, all you see is potential. You don't know all about who they are or who they can be, but you can tell by the way they speak or react, by the way they move, and by the way they articulate their thoughts what they have the potential to become."
Ann shrugs. "That's all very vague."
Vague. That seems to be her favorite word. She's a very straightforward, no bullshit-type of person, and not much of a theorist, it appears.
"You, for example," I say, raising my voice and enjoying the way her head tilts up when she realizes I'm about to talk about her. "You're very concerned about what other people - me, for example - think about you. That strikes me as odd, considering you're obviously a very strong-willed and independent person otherwise."
It's hard to tell whether she's flattered by my words, or not. She looks at me with an apathetic expression, not a single muscle on her face moving.
"But it also tells me one very important thing about you," I continue, noticing that her ears move upward in attention, like a little bunny. Fuck, she needs to stop with that damn cuteness.
"It tells me that you like to please."
The frown is back on her pretty face. I'm sure I'll see a lot of it, if I decide to take her in. I'm also sure that I'll be able to keep that face of hers in check, eventually.
"I like to please?" she repeats. "I hardly think so."
I smile at her as she scoffs. "I wouldn't expect you to agree. I'm just saying there's more to a person than you can see on first impression - that goes for you, and for me, too."
"You like to scatter a lot of intellectual fairy dust on all of this, don't you?"
Her question catches me off guard, something that doesn't happen very often.
"When do we get to the real stuff?" she adds. "The terms of this deal? When do we talk about that? I thought that's what we're here for."
I signal for the waiter to bring us the next course of food. A simple hand gesture suffices for them to know what I want. I've been here many times before, and I usually order the same array of dishes.
Just moments later, two servers appear at our table, one of them clearing the empty plates, while the other exchanges them for a new dish, a selection of antipasti.
Ann sits up straight, tense and impatient with her eyes glued to the table. As soon as we're alone again, her eyes dart up to mine, her eyebrows arching in an expectant expression.
I straighten up, too, gesturing toward the food in front of us.
"We'll eat," I inform her. "And then we'll talk business."
Chapter Nine
Jared
It's hard to get her to talk. I've never been with a woman who was so reluctant to engage in mundane chit-chat. I have to worm every single word out of her, even about the most mundane topics. I hoped to find out more about her work and how she intended to proceed with it once she's living with me. I thought it would be smart to approach the subject carefully, slowly, by talking about innocent, random topics, allowing her to talk about herself as much as she wanted to so she would become comfortable enough with me to open up about more delicate issues.