Page 70 of Boss of Me
“Delicious. I really enjoyed them.”
“I could tell,” he says a bit snidely. “You practically inhaled them.”
I flush self-consciously before forcing a small laugh. “Guess I was pretty hungry.”
He nods, a slight smirk on his lips. “Your housekeeping duties must take a lot of energy.”
So does fucking my boss all night.The dirty thought makes me blush and grin to myself.
Our waiter brings my margarita, collects our empty plates and asks if we want dessert. Before I can say “Hell no, check please,” Dawson orderstres lechescake for both of us.
He smiles at me as the waiter walks away. “You’re gonna love it. It’s really good and totally worth the calories.”
I smile weakly. So much for my great escape.
“So you’re in grad school, right? At UT?”
I nod and take a sip of my fresh margarita.
“When do classes start?”
“Next Tuesday.”
“How many classes are you taking?”
“Three. I’ll have Fridays off.”
Dawson grins. “Are you excited?”
“Very.” It’s the most interest he’s shown in me since our date started. Maybe there’s hope after all.
“Barbara says you’re enrolled in the . . . wait, don’t tell me.” He scrunches up his face in concentration, then snaps his fingers. “School of Information. The iSchool. You’re studying to become a librarian.”
I smile. “That’s right.”
He grins, obviously pleased with himself for remembering. I wait for him to ask me more questions about school, work, family—anything.
“Did you know that your boss is one of UT’s biggest alumni donors?” he says.
I deflate in my seat.
“I read inForbesthat he’s donated over $250 million to the university, including sixty mil from his foundation’s Global Information Security Fellowship.” Dawson grins. “I fully expect UT to name a building after him any day now.”
“The school already has a Ransom building,” I murmur. “But sure, why not?”
Dawson hesitates, clearly wanting to say more. “I’d love to meet him. Maybe you could introduce us when I drop you off.”
Any last shred of hope I had collapses like a soufflé. Apparently Gunner was right about Dawson’s true motives for setting up this date. It galls me to admit it, but here we are.
Dawson leans toward me with a hopeful expression. “So what do you say? Can you introduce me to your boss, maybe put in a good?—”
“He won’t be home,” I lie.
Dawson frowns. “He won’t?”
“No. He plays golf on Sundays”—every other Sunday—“and gets back pretty late.”
“Oh.” Dawson looks disappointed. Crushed, even.
