“Oh,” she awkwardly laughs. “It came off completely sexual on camera.”
“The media is going to spin it that way anyway.” I shrug. “May as well play it up.”
“Yeah, the media does seem to have a certain view on you. At least that’s what it seems like online.” Her eyes immediately go wide as if she said something she shouldn’t have.
“Stevie, sweetheart. Did you Google me?” I ask with far too much amusement in my tone.
She relaxes her shoulders, her casual and confident demeanor coming back real quick. “I Googled everyone on the team. Don’t get your panties in a twist, thinking I was just looking at you.”
“And what did you find when you Googled me and only me?”
“Nothing I didn’t already know.”
Oh.
I love my reputation, everything about it. The people who matter to me know my media persona is just that—a persona. But I like everyone else thinking I’m some unlovable piece of shit. It works well for me. Women throw themselves at me because of it.
But for some reason, with this flight attendant with an attitude, I don’t think I like that. Clearly, my reputation doesn’t do it for her. But if she liked me, even a little bit, it would make it a lot more fun to mess with her on the airplane, which is still my mission for this season. But she kind of can’t stand me, it seems, and everything I do on board just makes her like me even less.
I think I want her to like me, though. Like on a human level.
“Don’t believe everything you see in the media. It’s a lot of smoke and mirrors to push the narrative my PR team wants them to push.”
“So, you’re saying you don’t leave the arena every night with a new girl? And you actually give a shit about someone other than yourself?”
My brows shoot up at her directness. “Is there something wrong with leaving the arena with a new girl each night?”
“Not at all,” Stevie quickly states, which throws me off. I figured she would say yes. Most women don’t wholly support the whole “man-whore” thing. “But you said it’s not as it seems. It seems like that’s pretty accurate to the picture they’ve painted of you.”
“Well…” I rub the back of my neck, suddenly feeling put on the spot. I don’t often feel the need to explain myself or my actions, but for some reason, I want to. “Believe it or not, there are times when I walk those women out of the arena, hoping the media takes pictures, then I put them in a cab and send them home.”
Stevie’s brows shoot up, taken aback.
“But then, yeah, there are times they come home with me. My image makes me a shitload of money. Doesn’t hurt to play into it, and the benefits aren’t half bad either.”
An understanding laugh heaves in Stevie’s chest.
Damn, she really is pretty, and her lack of judgment is attractive. Regardless of her sometimes-shitty attitude or the stained and tattered sweatpants she’s wearing, that have seen better days.
Stevie eyes me for a moment, a memory flashing in her eyes before her smile falls. “I gotta get going.” She quickly turns away from me.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I once again jog to stop her. These shoes are Louboutins. No one should be running in Louboutins. “What just happened?”
Stevie pauses for a moment and my attention falls to her thumb as she nervously spins the ring that lives there.
“The other night,” she begins. “What did you mean when you said, when it comes to food, you trust my opinion more than the other girls?”
I furrow my brows in confusion.
“When you wanted me to make you something other than your dinner you didn’t like. You said you trusted my opinion over my coworkers when it came to food.”
Oh, that. I forgot she got all weird after I said that.
“Yeah, what about it?”
“What did you mean by that?”
Clearly, I’m lost here.
“I meant what I said? That I trust your opinion about food more than those other girls.”
“But what did that mean?” she presses.
I take a deep breath, trying to figure out what the fuck she’s talking about. Women, I tell you. They’re all a little nutty.
“Look, Stevie. I’m a simple man—”
“No, you’re not.”
“Okay,” I laugh. She got me there. Simple probably isn’t the best word to describe myself. I don’t leave the house without a planned and prepped ensemble. “Direct. I’m direct. There’s no hidden meaning when I say something. I don’t lie. I don’t bullshit. What I said, I meant.”