Page 45 of Heartless
“You sounded like a loon. How did you even know all that nonsense?”
He lifted a finger in the air and pointed it at me. “It's not nonsense. When we get back at The Gem, I'm playing you a podcast. Joe Rogan hadthis guy on...”
“You need to find a real girlfriend before your crazy starts to overshadow your good looks.”
“Finally,” he shot me a teasing look. “I’ve been waiting for a compliment ever since I came to pick you up. I tried extra hard tonight. I’m glad you noticed.”
“You're missing the point.”
“I remember something about you calling me a bulky brute,” he continued. “It didn't occur to me back then that you meant it as a compliment.”
“That’s because I didn’t.”
“And yet you found me good enough to meet your demanding mother. Now that is a true compliment.”
“Don't flatter yourself that much. Normal, sane men don't go around offering women to be their pretend boyfriends.”
“True. But normal, sane women don't need a pretend boyfriend. We are a match made in heaven.”
I turned to look out the window, trying to hide my smile, but I couldn’t. I burst out laughing. “Aliens. Really, Parker?”
He glanced at me for a moment. “It worked, didn't it? She stopped listing your qualities as if she was auctioning you off.”
“I think she is seriously debating if she can support our relationship now.”
“Wealth beats crazy in the eyes of people like your mother. Status is more important to her than quirkiness.”
I examined his face. His body. The calmness he oozed.
“You are really confident when it comes to these things,” I said. “That's unusual for a single man at your age.”
“I'm just good at reading people.”
I was sure there was more than that. “Why do you hate weddings?”
That muscle on his jaw ticked. “I don’t hate weddings.”
“I’m good at reading people too. I think you do hate them. You just refuse to admit it.”
“And how many years did you silently hate ballet before you had the guts to tell your mother?” Parker attacked me and I was sure I had hit a nerve with my question.
“Our game doesn’t work that way, remember? You have to answer my question, if you want to ask me one.”
“Fuck that stupid game,” he paused for a moment, then continued. “And your private French lessons? Three times a week? Seriously? The only excuse I would accept, is if you had been fucking your teacher at least half of that time.”
Laughter burst out of me.
“Have you?” He asked.
“My teacher was a sixty-eight year old lady.”
“Is that a no?”
“It’s a no,” I said through another burst of laughter.
“Who were been fucking then? In high school?”
“My boyfriend.”
