Now, my mother didn’t raise a fool, and of course I’ll play hard to get, because, yes, getting out of Jeff and Mom’s house is the end goal here, as well as finding a new job and bringing a hot piece of ass to the reunion, but I’m also going to see what this guy has to say. I’m going to feel him out, and if the offer or story isn’t good enough, see ya, buddy.
I’m all about saving face, but not in exchange for my soul.
I round the corner and find the Chipotle across the street. My stomach growls just from the sight of the crisp white building and burnt red pepper logo. If anything, this will be a free meal. Burrito bowl, here I come.
Once I got home, I quickly showered, tossed my hair into a tight bun, and then put on a pair of jean shorts and a simple Aerosmith T-shirt. I paired that with some bracelets and my favorite pair of comfortable Birkenstocks—found them at the Thrifty Shopper, which around here has rich people’s used clothing for super cheap—and I headed out.
I charged my phone just long enough to be able to make a phone call if I need a quick out or if I was abducted. Now that I’m crossing the street, almost here, a small bout of nerves is in the pit of my stomach.
For the most part, I have strong bravado, but there are times when that bravado falters and my vulnerability comes out. I’m experiencing flashes of that right now.
When I make it to the other side of the road, I take a deep breath and head into the restaurant, and I spot Huxley immediately. It’s hard not to.
I’ll admit, the man is extremely attractive. A tall man, he must be at least six foot two, his skin has a golden tan to it, his hair is a beautiful chestnut brown—yes, I said beautiful—and he has those dark, penetrating eyes that seem like they could cut any human in half, in the boardroom or on the streets. Currently, he’s staring down at his phone, one leg pressed up against the wall he’s leaning onto, and he’s wearing dark grey chino shorts and a light blue button-down shirt that hugs him in all the right places. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and—hello, man chest—the top two buttons of his shirt are undone, showing off a little man cleavage. Not too much to be douchey, but just enough to pique my interest. Not that I’m here to actually see him as a potential date, but the hot factor needs to be considered for this . . . transaction. And . . .
He’s incredibly good-looking.
He would make Angela drool, for sure.
His eyes lift from his phone briefly, and when they spot me, I feel them dangerously rake over my frame, taking me in, every last inch of me. When they finally meet my eyes, he pushes away from the wall and walks up to me while stuffing his phone in his pocket.
“You’re here,” he says.
“Worried I was going to stand you up?”
“A little,” he admits, but that confidence he exudes doesn’t falter, as if he had a bout of worry, but knew I was going to come all along. He nods toward the counter. “Want to order and then get down to business?”
“That would be ideal for my stomach.”
We get in line, and he lets me go first—point for him being gentlemanly—and I order my typical burrito bowl with chicken, black beans, and fajita veggies. And since lover boy is paying, I have them pile the guac on. Huxley sweeps in behind me with a steak burrito, pinto beans, no rice and tons of lettuce and salsa. No guac. Does he not like guac or is he not willing to pay the extra money? A question for the ages.
When we get to the register, he grabs a beer for both of us, as well as chips and salsa, and then pays. When I see him pull out his Amex Black Card to swipe it, my anxiety over him claiming he’s rich no longer exists. Uh, yeah . . . the man wasn’t lying about being rich. Good to know.
With food and drinks in hand, Huxley finds a high-top table near the window that offers us enough privacy from the rest of the restaurant that I feel comfortable enough to have the type of conversation we’re about to have.
Once we’re seated, I say, “From the lack of guac on your burrito, I’m going to assume you don’t like it very much.”
He shakes his head. “Too slimy. Can’t handle the texture of it.”
“Are you a California native?”
He nods. “Yup, born in Santa Monica.”
“Fascinating,” I say, giving him a smooth once-over. “I don’t think I’ve ever found a native Californian who doesn’t like guacamole.”
“I’m an anomaly. My brothers think I’m weird, so you’re not alone in the opinion you probably have about me.”