everyone’s distracted expressions to order two entrees and a side dish of mussels.
Cohen’s face is dark. Something about tonight has ticked him the wrong way. A table over, a little girl peers at him and asks her mom something in French. Probably along the lines of Mommy, is that man a serial killer?
At least I get the chance to make friends with LeCrue. By the end of the night he’s complimented me so many times that I get the feeling he’s trying to make a point to Cohen about how lucky he is. Either way, I’m not complaining.
“Would anyone like me to bring them anything else?” the poor waiter asks.
“The check will be fine, thank you,” says LeCrue.
“Are you sure? We have a delicious crème brule—”
“He said he wanted the check. Are you deaf or just an idiot?” snaps Cohen.
Anger lashes at the back of my neck. Enough is enough. “Don’t speak to other people like that,” I flare at him. “Apologize. Now.”
The shock around the table is palpable. People probably don’t often tell Cohen to play nice. Maybe that’s why he never does. There’s a few seconds in which my anger melts away, leaving room for the sane part of me to berate myself for losing my temper, again, to this man who I’m at the mercy of…but then he turns to the waiter.
“My apologies,” he says shortly.
You could land a commercial jet in Claude’s open mouth.
It seems a good enough note to end on as any. “I’ve had a lovely night,” I announce, standing and dropping my napkin on the table. “Thank you so much. I hope to see you all again as soon as possible.”
“I share that wish.” LeCrue kisses my hand. “Miracles don’t come along every day.”
Cohen says nothing, all the way outside into the freezing night. The car’s already waiting for us at the curb.
The doors close after us and we’re shut in again into our tiny room. Cohen lets out a breath, closes his eyes, and massages his forehead with his fingertips.
“I’m good, right?” I bounce in my seat, chipper from the wine. “If I run into LeCrue after this month is over, he’ll probably propose to me. That’d be an interesting how-we-met story, wouldn’t it?”
“He’s three times your age,” Cohen growls.
“Oh, that’s nothing. Once I had a client who was so old, the address he gave me was in a nursing home.”
That usually gets a laugh from the girls back home, but Cohen just closes his eyes briefly again.
“Right. That probably grossed you out. Sorry,” I say lightly.
“The idea disgusts me.”
“I’m a pretty disgusting girl.”
“No.” His tone is sharp. “You’re not the disgusting one.”
I’m the one who took the money afterwards, but I don’t say that. Instead I say, “So that old man and his dweeby son are the reason your dad hired me, huh? Seems like a real nice family-values kind of guy. Don’t like his son, though. I was waiting for him to chuck his wine glass at your head the whole night.”
“Could you quiet your yammering for a moment, please? I need to think.”
“Nope,” I say immediately. “You said you wanted me to be myself around you. Well, this is myself. I yammer more than a farmer who grows yams. So get used to it.”
Faint surprise—and, could it be, amusement?—flickers in his eyes. “Fair enough,” he says, with almost no vitriol. “Claude is an absolute moron. The company would burn in his hands. LeCrue knows it. He wants to sell it to me before he dies and has to leave it to Claude.”
“And Claude’s not too happy about that,” I surmise.
“I don’t understand why LeCrue is wasting time.” Cohen’s hand closes in his lap. “I could have his company off the ground in an instant. I’m intelligent. Innovative. I’m—”
“A jerk,” I finish.
He stares at me coldly. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, sorry. You’re right. Excuse me.” I nod. “I meant to say a complete, utter, unapologetic rude jerk.”
“You’re very opinionated for someone who’s being paid
Cohen’s face is dark. Something about tonight has ticked him the wrong way. A table over, a little girl peers at him and asks her mom something in French. Probably along the lines of Mommy, is that man a serial killer?
At least I get the chance to make friends with LeCrue. By the end of the night he’s complimented me so many times that I get the feeling he’s trying to make a point to Cohen about how lucky he is. Either way, I’m not complaining.
“Would anyone like me to bring them anything else?” the poor waiter asks.
“The check will be fine, thank you,” says LeCrue.
“Are you sure? We have a delicious crème brule—”
“He said he wanted the check. Are you deaf or just an idiot?” snaps Cohen.
Anger lashes at the back of my neck. Enough is enough. “Don’t speak to other people like that,” I flare at him. “Apologize. Now.”
The shock around the table is palpable. People probably don’t often tell Cohen to play nice. Maybe that’s why he never does. There’s a few seconds in which my anger melts away, leaving room for the sane part of me to berate myself for losing my temper, again, to this man who I’m at the mercy of…but then he turns to the waiter.
“My apologies,” he says shortly.
You could land a commercial jet in Claude’s open mouth.
It seems a good enough note to end on as any. “I’ve had a lovely night,” I announce, standing and dropping my napkin on the table. “Thank you so much. I hope to see you all again as soon as possible.”
“I share that wish.” LeCrue kisses my hand. “Miracles don’t come along every day.”
Cohen says nothing, all the way outside into the freezing night. The car’s already waiting for us at the curb.
The doors close after us and we’re shut in again into our tiny room. Cohen lets out a breath, closes his eyes, and massages his forehead with his fingertips.
“I’m good, right?” I bounce in my seat, chipper from the wine. “If I run into LeCrue after this month is over, he’ll probably propose to me. That’d be an interesting how-we-met story, wouldn’t it?”
“He’s three times your age,” Cohen growls.
“Oh, that’s nothing. Once I had a client who was so old, the address he gave me was in a nursing home.”
That usually gets a laugh from the girls back home, but Cohen just closes his eyes briefly again.
“Right. That probably grossed you out. Sorry,” I say lightly.
“The idea disgusts me.”
“I’m a pretty disgusting girl.”
“No.” His tone is sharp. “You’re not the disgusting one.”
I’m the one who took the money afterwards, but I don’t say that. Instead I say, “So that old man and his dweeby son are the reason your dad hired me, huh? Seems like a real nice family-values kind of guy. Don’t like his son, though. I was waiting for him to chuck his wine glass at your head the whole night.”
“Could you quiet your yammering for a moment, please? I need to think.”
“Nope,” I say immediately. “You said you wanted me to be myself around you. Well, this is myself. I yammer more than a farmer who grows yams. So get used to it.”
Faint surprise—and, could it be, amusement?—flickers in his eyes. “Fair enough,” he says, with almost no vitriol. “Claude is an absolute moron. The company would burn in his hands. LeCrue knows it. He wants to sell it to me before he dies and has to leave it to Claude.”
“And Claude’s not too happy about that,” I surmise.
“I don’t understand why LeCrue is wasting time.” Cohen’s hand closes in his lap. “I could have his company off the ground in an instant. I’m intelligent. Innovative. I’m—”
“A jerk,” I finish.
He stares at me coldly. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, sorry. You’re right. Excuse me.” I nod. “I meant to say a complete, utter, unapologetic rude jerk.”
“You’re very opinionated for someone who’s being paid
Similar Books
