“I mean, if you want to lay down stereotypes, then, no, you look more like an alpha asshole you might find in the boardroom. It’s the haircut and watch.”
I glance down at my watch and then back at her. The watch is really expensive. “I get the alpha in the boardroom, but why the asshole?”
She scans me, her nose scrunches, and she says, “Your cologne. Smells too good. Nice guys never smell that good.”
“From this brief conversation, I’m going to assume you found no takers in your rich husband search.”
“Nope.” She pops the P. “You’re actually the first guy I’ve run into today. Imagine that. Received plenty of judgmental stares from the ladies around here, though.”
“It’s probably because of your four-seasons-ago-Target leggings,” I joke.
“Yeah, they can totally tell that kind of stuff.” She tilts her head to the side. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” I answer, sort of enjoying this odd encounter.
“You’re rich, right?” When I don’t answer, she rolls her eyes and adds, “I’m not going to pull out a nail file and try to stab you, if that’s what you’re worried about. I read this article on how to snag a rich guy, and I feel as though one of the suggestions was wrong.”
I stick my hands in my pockets and casually say, “I have money.”
She snorts. “Yeah, I’m sure you just have it.” Shaking her head, she says, “Okay, you’re loaded, let’s go with that—because it’s obvious. I want to know, do rich guys like braids?”
“Braids?” I ask, confused.
“You know.” She points to the side of her head, where there’s a small braid stretched across her head and then tied into her ponytail. “Braids. Do you like these?”
“Uh, I mean . . . sure? It’s not like I’m super excited about it, but I don’t hate it, either.”
“I knew it,” she whispers while snapping her fingers. “That article was total clickbait. I could tell by the millions of ads on the page that kept popping up every time I scrolled down. Duped again.”
“Do I even want to know?”
“Probably not.”
I rock on my heels. “So, looking for a rich boyfriend, huh?”
She eyes me skeptically. “Yes.”
“You know, I’m single.”
I know, I know. What the hell are you thinking, Huxley? This is a random girl on the street, looking for a rich boyfriend. For all you know, she could very well be a gold digger. She could be bad news. She could be a decoy for someone to drive by with a van and rob you. It’s happened before in this neighborhood.
And, from the way her leggings fit tightly against her flat stomach, it’s a solid guess that she’s not pregnant, therefore making this plan of mine exponentially worse. But I don’t see any other options at the moment.
She’s single, and she’s a woman, the only two requirements I’m truly looking for at this point.
Still looking skeptical, she folds her arms over her chest. “You’re single.”
“Yeah. Single as they come.”
“And you’re telling me this because . . .”
Yeah, why are you telling her this, Huxley? Why are you telling a complete stranger that you’re single, with the intention that you can use her to your advantage?
Because she seems to need help like I need help, and if I’ve learned anything about business, it’s that business deals can go a long way if made properly, if they can benefit both parties.
And I very well might have a business deal in the making.
“You know, I think we should go grab something to eat.”
She doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink. “Okay, what kind of creep are you?”
“Excuse me?” I ask.
She motions at me with her finger. “I told you I’m looking for a rich boyfriend. You should be running away. You should probably be calling the cops to escort me out of here and back to my mom’s modest bungalow. There’s no way in hell you should be asking me to grab something to eat. So, what’s your game, man?”
She’s spunky, outspoken, unlike any girl I’ve met, that’s for sure. And she’s right. I should be scared. She seems to have the kind of tenacity that would bring a man to his knees, but she also is a qualified candidate for what I’m looking for, and I’m three days away from a dinner date. I’m willing to roll the dice.
“I have no game—”