Page 33 of Mr. Delicious
Being born into wealth had robbed me of the appreciation the general person would feel for doing certain things, like being picked up by a limo, being on a private jet, and going to Paris on a whim.
I’d been traveling on private jets since birth. Everyone in the family had one because that was, obviously, how they’d get around the world. It was as essential to each person as a car was. They all had limos pick up our guests, too and had the very latest models of whatever car took our interests.
And, as for Paris, my mother was there practically every week shopping. It was as simple to her as going into town. My father spent time in France, too, visiting family.
“I own a lot of businesses; restaurants, luxury apartments, and hotels across Chicago, LA, and Europe,” I explained further. Normally, I’d elaborate, but I didn’t want to scare her away. I got the feeling as intrigued as she was, she didn’t care about the wealth, and I didn’t want to come across as being some sort of pompous prick.
“That’s amazing. And you have restaurants? I can’t believe you have restaurants and come to my place every day.”
“How else would I see you?”
Again, her cheeks flushed. “Why didn’t you ask me out before now then?” She smiled bashfully.
Good. She was loosening up.
“Because the word on the street only came out last week that you were single.”
“I have been practically single for the same length of time that you’ve known me.” There was a hint of something sad in her voice that told me she’d had to deal with a lot from her asshole of an ex.
“That’s my misfortune then, for not asking sooner.” It wasn’t like I hadn’t wanted to.
My father was a constant reminder of the kind of man I never wanted to be. He always cheated on my mother. My mother acted like she didn’t know, but I knew she did. She must have and was probably afraid of what her life would be like if she left. It was no way to live, but she chose it.
My brother was like my father too and cheated on his wife shamelessly.
I was no saint and would be the last person to wave any form of flag, but I didn’t see the point. Why get attached to someone, get them to love or trust you, and then disrespect them by choosing to be with someone else?
“No, it’s mine.” Her voice broke into my thoughts. “I shouldn’t have stayed with someone who was so wrong for me.”
“What happened with your ex?” I’d heard the gist of what took place between her and the ex that morning when she came into the coffeehouse upset, but I wanted to know more. “What did he do to you?”
The sad look on her face made me want to get off this plane and find the fucker so I could beat him senseless.
“Messed up everything,” she replied sitting back against the seat.
“Tell me.”
The sadness in her huge, brown eyes was evident, they spoke so much more than I knew she would. I could tell the signs of a lonely person. Sometimes they looked happy, or like they had it all, but really they were just going through the motions. She came into the coffeehouse and like clockwork, ran through the same routine. She’d meet her friend Stella, they’d talk, Stella would leave, and Wren would work.
Sometimes she had enough staff to take the edge off, but often times she didn’t. I’d seen the ex a total of five times, and each time I thought he looked like a loser, an idiot who had his woman running around while he played around doing fuck all.
“Basically, he tricked me into getting a bunch of loans, one of which was to pay for physio for his leg. But it was all a lie. He used the money for prostitutes and strippers, and God knows what else, and left me with the bill. I’m most likely going to lose everything.” Her voice shook as she said that.
“No, you won’t.” I offered a kind smile.
She brightened up and shook her head. “You say that like you know I won’t. Are you going to ask Mr. Jordin to give me some time to sort myself out? If you know him, tell him I could send over a batch of the best muffins he’d ever tasted in his life if he could agree.” She was laughing, and I smiled but felt guilty.
Maybe now was the time to tell her thatIwas Mr. Jordin and that AJ was a name I’d thought up on the spot so as not to put her off.
Adam Jordin was my name. I’d just abbreviated it for the purposes of our date. It wasn’t exactly a lie.
I’d seen how long it took her to loosen up around me and how uneasy she looked by my wealth, so it was probably best that I didn’t tell her who I was just yet.
I really wanted her to have a nice time on this trip.
“Mr. Jordin?” I did my best to sound clueless.
“It’s a name I saw when I was signing the agreement. I figured that maybe he was the bank manager or someone. It sounds French,” she giggled.
