“I don’t think you’re weird, just . . . interesting. You also didn’t get rice.”
“Not a big rice fan.” He glances at me while he unwraps his burrito. “Care to analyze anything else about my order?”
“You got beer instead of a soda. You’re either extremely nervous or you’re the type of person who has no shame in ordering an alcoholic beverage at a quick-serve restaurant.”
“I don’t know what it feels like to be nervous,” he says in such a straight, monotone voice that I actually believe him. I’m not sure he knows that emotion based on that quick and abrupt answer. “I also don’t carry around shame. It’s a waste of my mental energy.”
I pick up my fork and move it around my burrito bowl as he takes his first bite. “Ahh, I see how you are.”
He finishes chewing and swallows, following up with a swipe of his napkin across his mouth before he asks, “Oh, you do? Please, educate me on myself.”
“You’re one of those power men.”
“Power men?” he asks, brow raised.
“You know, the ones you read about, the successful ones that have a crazy regimen. They read a self-help book a week, work out every day, are brutal in the boardroom, and drink so much water that their bladder doesn’t know what yellow pee is.”
His burrito is halfway to his mouth as he says, “Takes me a week and a half to get through a self-help book when a new season of The Challenge comes out.”
Then he takes a bite of his burrito, and honestly, from the lack of facial expressions, I can’t tell if he’s being serious or not. Might as well test his knowledge.
“You watch The Challenge?”
He nods slowly. “CT for life.”
Okay, okay, don’t freak out.
Gah . . . but CT!
“He’s my dream man,” I say before I can stop myself. “Heavy Boston accent, troubled past, buff—even in his dad-bod era—and just a fine piece of ass. Love him so much. Is that why you like him?”
He wipes his mouth, and in a dry tone, he says, “Yes. Can’t get enough of that tight ass of his.”
Look at that, we have a funny man in our midst. I like that. Makes me feel comfortable.
“I knew you were an ass man.”
“How do you figure?”
“You just have that type of intense glare in your eyes. Screams ass man.”
“Wasn’t aware you could tell by someone’s glare that they’re an ass man,” he says while lifting his beer to his lips.
“Easily.”
“Funny.” He swallows some more beer, sets it down, and says, “Because asses are sexy and all, but I’m all about the neck.”
“The neck?” I ask, my loaded fork halfway to my mouth. “You, uh, you like to choke people?”
“No, but there’s something so sexy, so possessive, about being able to hold your girl at the nape of her neck.”
“Possessive, are we?” I ask, trying to feel this man out.
“I prefer to claim what’s mine.”
“Interesting. If that’s the case, why are you looking for a fake fiancée? Claiming what’s yours seems like an intense reaction, something you wouldn’t take lightly.”
“I don’t take it lightly. It’s why I haven’t been able to find the right person, because I take my dating life, or lack thereof, seriously. I’m not going to waste my time on someone if I don’t feel an innate demand in my body to claim them.”
“I guess that makes sense.” I study him. “So, then, why the fake fiancée? I told you I need someone to pretend to be my boyfriend for a reunion. What’s your reasoning?”
“We’ll get to that,” he says. “I want to know more about you first. I need to be comfortable with you before I tell you what I need.”
“Okay, as long as I can ask you questions, too.”
“A question for a question. That work for you?”
Easy to compromise—I’m surprised. He doesn’t necessarily give off that vibe, especially with all the possessive talk. I’m just going to make it known, that detail about him is a total turn-on. Not that I’m looking to actually date this guy or anything.
“That works for me. You ask first.”
“What do you do?” He takes a large bite of his burrito, and for being a man of “class,” he’s really munching down on that burrito.
“Currently in between jobs—”