Huxley: Don’t have one.
Lottie: That’s a boring answer. You have to have some sort of board game you enjoy.
Huxley: I don’t play board games.
Lottie: Card game?
Huxley: Uno?
Lottie: Is that a question or an answer?
Huxley: Answer. It’s the only thing I could think of. Breaker makes us play Uno Attack every once in a while. It’s fun.
Lottie: Ooooo, I love Uno Attack. When those cards spit out at you, it’s the devil’s work. Good answer, Huxley. I accept.
Huxley: Glad to hear it. Now, getting back to work.
Lottie: See you at dinner.
“Did you ask for this on purpose?” I ask when Reign leaves the room.
Huxley, who’s looking particularly handsome in a black button-up shirt, places his napkin on his lap before reaching for the homemade horseradish sauce. “You put me in the mood for steak. Hope you don’t have to send yours back.”
“Cheeky,” I say. He dumps some sauce on his steak and then hands me the dish. Our fingers glide over one another, and for some reason, the warm touch of his finger sends a bolt of lust up my arm and straight to my heart. Where the hell did that come from?
Clearing my throat, I say, “This looks good though. Fingerling potatoes and . . . what’s this green thing, again?” I ask.
“Broccolini.”
He’s answering in clipped, short responses, which only leads me to believe one thing—he needs to be warmed up again if I’m going to get him to engage like earlier. He seemed pretty open through texts, but in person, his guard is up. The good thing is I know it can be torn down with some coaxing.
“Broccolini looks like something from a Dr. Seuss book.”
“It’s good.”
“What’s this stuff on it?” I ask, seeing if he’ll expand on his comments.
“Mustard vinaigrette.” Huxley cuts into his steak.
Oh-kay . . .
I’m wracking my brain for what else I can ask, when he says, “I reached out to Dave today, like I promised. I asked to set up a meeting with him to go over business.”
Oh crap, I forgot he said he was going to do that, even after admitting he’d like more time to work the friendship angle. I feel guilty. I had a moment of weakness last night when I told him I was done. I was frustrated, and deservingly so, given the closed-off individual I’ve been interacting with. But that frustration morphed into something else last night—appreciation.
Appreciation for him loosening up and giving my idea a chance without a disgruntled look or thought.
“You didn’t have to call Dave,” I say. “I was just in a bad state of mind last night. I shouldn’t have told you that I was ready to be done.” I glance up at him. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. Business needs to be taken care of,” Huxley says rather coldly. “He’s going to try to make some time for me this week. When he does, I’ll be sure to tell him you’re busy and can’t meet up with Ellie.”
“Huxley, you don’t have to do that. I signed a contract. I can go out with Ellie.”
His eyes land on me and sternly he says, “It’s fine.”
It doesn’t feel fine.
But just like that, the conversation is over. Just when I thought he was starting to warm up to me, he turns into this taciturn man again. Not sure I’ll ever understand these mood swings or why he has them, probably because he won’t let me get close enough to figure out why he acts the way he does.
But I guess that’s “business” for you . . . right?
I’m so sick of that. Of that term. When did business become this impersonal? When my mom first owned her cleaning business, before being hired as a senior manager in her current position, she was never cold. She was warm, friendly. It was one of the reasons why her customers loved her so much, because she took great care of them, because she was, in fact . . . not indifferent. Although, to be fair, Mom’s business involved giving to her clients, whereas Huxley is in the business of acquisitions.
But that doesn’t explain why Huxley has the need to act like this.
Let’s see if I can loosen him up like I did last night.
“Question time—are you ready?”
His brow raises as he glances up at me. For a nanosecond, I think he’s going to deny me the satisfaction of cracking his exterior once again, but then his eyes return to his steak as he cuts into it. “Ready.”
Man, it is going to be hard to pull him out of his shell tonight. It has to be a good question, something that will get him talking.