Page 38 of My Book Boyfriend
“This whole night is off the record for our dispute and any press,” I say solemnly. “I know from my friend Miranda Langbroek how terrible the press can be. Her stepfather was the Manhattan Borough President, and one reporter in particular seems to love following her and creating drama.”
“You know Miranda?” There’s a slight lift to his shoulders, as if I’ve said some magic word that strengthens my credibility. “I don’t know her well, but the press was pretty terrible to her when they published that photo of her crying on the front page, her mascara smeared.”
I put out my hand to shake his. “Deal?”
“Deal.”
We finally take our turn in front of the stuffed animals. Audio of an excerpt from a Winnie-the-Pooh book plays. The bear and his friends were with A.A. Milne’s American publisher, who then donated them to the New York Public Library.
We walk out the exit, and I gesture to a bench in the hallway. “Can we sit down for a moment? It’s been a while since I’ve worn heels.”
We sit, and he stretches out his long legs. I lean back, relieved to be off my feet.
I’m not missing Aiden.
I don’t feel anything for Aiden. Maybe I’m in shock, and I’ll feel something tomorrow.
I should feel something. I wanted to date him.
Bella always says I hold back my feelings.
I narrow my eyes.
I feel mad.
Mad at Aiden for being such a jerk. For stringing me along. For saying yes to my invite. Mad at myself for building this fantasy about him.
I sigh.
Rupert coughs. “You just sighed. It seems like I may have to readA Devilish Dareif I’m making you sigh. I really must be losing my touch.”
I glance at him. “Sorry. I’m pissed at myself for thinking Aiden liked me.”
“I’m sure he gave you some good reasons.” Is there a thread of bitterness in his voice?
“Just enough to keep the flame of hope alive,” I say wryly.
“He might realize the error of his ways once he dates her for a while.”
“No thanks,” I say. “I’m not a complete idiot.”
“Did you really order a copy ofA Devilish Darefor me? I thought you hated me.”
I glance at him. “It would be easier if I hated you. But you were very sweet to walk Mr. Devi home. And Mrs. Potter recognized you as someone who reads periodically in the garden. And obviously”—I wave at his face and body—“you’re not unattractive.” How am I even sitting here with him?
He’s Rupert Evans, someone who periodically features onPage Sixand in pictures of events from charity functions.
Remember. It’s not me. It’s the garden.
Still, as another woman strolls through the hallway and her gaze sweeps over us, then stops and returns to Rupert, my poor, battered ego feels just a slight boost. She walks past but then turns around again to look at him.
“Do you want to make him jealous? We could dance near him.”
I shake my head. “I’d rather not spend any more time thinking about him.” And I wish I wasn’t going to run into him again in the hallway. Ugh. “You never answered my question. Why did you want to work for the family business?”
“A few reasons. My father wanted to prove that he could make it without the family name, but in a sense, he has still been stuck proving himself to my grandfather his whole career. And he just worked. I actually didn’t spend a lot of time with him growing up. Instead, I spent time with my grandfather. And my grandfather loves this company. I guess he gave that to Rowena and me.”
He looks away as if he suddenly regrets sharing so much. I stay silent, to encourage him to continue.
