“What?” He gasps, leaning forward on the table and smiling like a kid in a candy shop. “What is it then?”
“Oh, I’m not telling you.” I laugh, taking a lazy drink, and his jaw drops.
“Really?”
“Yep.”
“Well, maybe I’ll ask Addison, or Casey.”
“They wouldn’t break girl code.”
“They are the easiest to break because I know both their weaknesses.”
“Is that right?”
“Of course.” He uses his fingers to count out the two reasons. “One is six foot five and bosses me around nine to five. The other one looks like he hunts bears in his sleep and his first word was a grunt.” I can’t help the laugh that tumbles out, but I quickly stifle it when I see the way his eyes lock onto my lips.
“Hate to break it to you, pretty boy, but even Addy and Case don’t know. They don’t even know Rosieisn’tmy legal name.”
His head jerks back, his smile fading to a grin. “Really? And you told me?” I shrug, because I don’t really know why Ididtell him. Only that it kind of feels nice that someone knows. I don’t feel as distant.
“Who knows your real name?”
“Myniñeraand my parents.”
“Your what?”
“Niñera, my nanny. Her name is Carmela. She raised me.”Oh shit, that was another fact.He blinks a few times, probably also realizing it’s unusual for me to give up two facts about myself.
His smile fades more as his consideration of me becomes intense. I shift slightly under it, not used to the scrutiny. “A nanny raised you?”
“Well, duh. You do know who my parents are, yes?” I laugh, trying to shake the intensity of his eyes. It doesn’t work, he just stares through me like he’s understanding what my childhood must have been like.
“Right,” he replies quietly.
“Right,” I say, rather curt, but I’m officially over this “playing friends” thing and not ready to dive into the emptiness that lies in not being connected to my own family. My family is Chilean, despite them moving between Monaco, Great Falls, and New York, but my father and grandfathers were all so worried about money and legacy they forewent all things involved in our heritage. How do you explain anything about your culture to a shallow fuckboy you barely know? That you’re disconnected and only know Spanish words thanks to the woman paid to raise you.
You don’t explain it. Because that’s being vulnerable. Showing weakness.
And I am not weak.
I hit him with a smile. “This has been nice. But momma’s got to work.” I blow him a dramatic kiss before grabbing my jacket and scooting out of the booth to go find tonight’s lucky winner.
“Wait, you’re leaving?”
“Obviously.”
“But we were having a good time.” I don’t think he means to let his tone drop into something so serious, but it’s there. I choose to ignore it and the way my stomach tightens because of it.
“So fun.” I pat his shoulder. “Let’s do it again sometime.” He goes to open his mouth and I just know he is going to ask again. “Caleb.” I level him with a look, and he heaves a sigh.
“Ugh, fine. Pick better this time.” He rolls his eyes and stalks for the bouncy brunette. A giggle works its way up my throat and I turn my attention back to the bar, mumbling to myself.
“Okay, who’s it going to be.” I scan the bar and try to find the least annoying, most capable bachelor out there. My eyes snag on a guy with a neat mop of blond hair, a clean, pressed suit with his sleeves rolled up, and a wide, blooming smile.
Perfect.
I knew it was a bad decision to stay out later than I planned. But Tom Ford—not the real Tom Ford but the guy from last night whose name I forget—was the first non-Caleb induced orgasm I’d had in a really long time. So much so that I let him go for round two. It doesn’t count as repeating if it is the same night.
