Page 18 of Only the Wicked
“I thought we weren’t talking about any of that.”
He grins. “Quite right.” He points a finger at the frames. “These are new. Haven’t gotten used to them yet.”
“Are you one of those people with enormous font on their phones?”
“Can we broaden the untouchable topic list?”
I shrug, grinning. “Why are glasses embarrassing?”
“They’re not, except I never needed them until I turned forty.”
“Ah. You’re on the downhill spiral.”
He looks up from the menu. “As if you know anything about that. How old are you?”
“Thirty-one,” I answer easily, as age isn’t one of my hang-ups.
“Give it ten years,” he says. “Then ask me about my font size.”
He’s forty-one. Five years ago, he made the forty under forty list. I’d ask him what his goals are now that he’s past forty, but I’m not supposed to know about his prior accomplishments and work life is banned conversational material.
“So did you see any houses you liked?”
“Actually, yes. You should’ve joined me. They had chocolate chip cookies and freshly squeezed lemonade set out for the open house.”
“That’s a nice touch.”
“I’d say so. Kept me chatting with the agent for two glasses of lemonade. All of which hit about the second we walked into this restaurant.”
“Is that another side effect of forty?”
He lowers the menu and shoots me a how-dare-you pseudo glower. I smirk and he grins.
“So tell me, Sydney…”
I wait, wondering where he’ll take the conversation. By his own accord, the easy first date work convo is off the table.
“When on vacation, what are your favorite things to do?”
I lift the glass of water and sip to buy time. The upped attraction quota frazzled my focus. He’s beyond handsome, which makes the job easier, but I still have to keep my wits.
Be real. Be yourself.
But I know everything to do with the man across from me, so in the words of the great Bono, I can be exactly what he’s looking for—based on everything that’s been published or shared on social media by his ex and his late mother who passed away four years ago. His father lives in Florida, and from what I could find, never opened a social media account.
“I don’t take many vacations.”
It’s an honest answer, and one I know he will grasp.
His gaze lifts from the menu. “You good with a cabernet?”
I nod, and he sets the menu down.
“That’s not an answer.” He rests his back firmly against the booth and a slight smile plays across his lips. “What do you like to do? Or let’s play it this way. On your Pinterest board of idyllic vacations, what’s on it?”
“I don’t have a Pinterest board.” His ex did. She never deleted her wedding board, but she had so much on there I couldn’t derive what she planned. “But if I did, it would probably be a wish list of locations, not activities.” There’s no way my wish list will match an unknown list, and if he has a Pinterest board, it’s unknown to me because I never found it. “I do have a private bookmark folder filled with links to activities. Workouts. Weight routines. Hiking trails. Yoga studios.”
“You’re a yogi?” His grin widens.
