“I see someone likes those almost as much as me. Though I find it hard to believe someone as tiny as you could pack away three in one day.”
“I don’t think you’re supposed to point out when a woman overeats,” I said, without thinking, mortified to have been busted. Hey, I like fried dough. Who didn’t?
That drew him up short, his hand pausing as he reached out for a doughnut. “Fair enough. My apologies. One of the downsides of being rich is that no one dares to reprimand me.”
Oh, God, he thought I’d reprimanded him? Well, I had, but clearly I’d been too blunt. It was a bad habit. I hastened to correct my mistake. “I wasn’t saying you were wrong. I was just joking. But I have terrible delivery. I don’t sound funny. Do I?”
“No. You don’t.” He lifted the doughnut. “But no worries. I wasn’t upset. In fact, I liked that you were being honest, so don’t pretend you were joking.”
He was right. I hadn’t been joking. I appreciated that he recognized that.
He took a bite of the pastry and chewed, his eyes closing briefly. “Glorious. I’m going to open a bottle of wine. Do you want a glass?”
That had to be a trick question. I shook my head hastily. “No.”
“I can hear you thinking,” he said, shaking the doughnut in my direction. “You’re worried that you’re underage and what does it mean that I just offered you wine, aren’t you?”
Yes.
“Maybe that I’m trying to bait you into doing something illegal and then call you out for it, or maybe that I’m a pervert and I’m trying to get you drunk.” He gave a little smile. “Trust me, it wasn’t either. Just that it felt rude to not offer you some.”
It seemed to me that maybe he could have offered me a soft drink. But what did I know? It wasn’t that often anyone offered me anything at all, unless it was a criticism. “I’m fine.”
“You’re tense. You’re looking at me like I’m a big bad wolf.” He cocked his head. “I have to say it’s not a reaction I get nearly as often as I should.”
That was puzzling enough that I spoke before I thought about the consequences. “You want people to be afraid of you?”
“No, of course not. I just want people to stop kissing my ass. Stop lying to me.”
I had to guess that suck ups were a huge part of a rich guy’s reality. While it didn’t sound fun, you were still rich. So that right there exempted you from a certain percentage of pity parties. In my opinion. “No one ever lies to me,” I told him. “Sometimes it would be nice if they did.”
An I love you from my gram would have gone a long way.
“So you be honest with me and I’ll lie to you, how does that sound?”
I shook my head. “You don’t know the right things to lie to me about. So because I know you don’t know, I will think everything you’re saying is a lie, or I’ll wonder if it’s a lie, and then I’ll never know what to think.”
He let out a rusty laugh, before walking to the kitchen. His chuckles followed me. “Very good point, Tiffany,” he called over his shoulder. “Let’s try a policy of mutual honesty with each other then. And when you have my measure, you can ask me to start lying. Or maybe clue me in on what you’d like me to lie about and we can start now.”
Turning in my chair, I watched him bend over and open the wine fridge. His jeans pulled across his ass. I had never seen a butt like that off the Internet or apart from underwear ads in the Cosmo magazines I read at the public library. This was a man who had hired a personal trainer. If I had the option of choosing what he should lie to me about, I could spin a fantasy pretty damn quick involving him telling me I was beautiful. I had a great imagination. Growing up it was all I’d owned.
He stood up, catching me staring at him. “No?”
I shook my head. “There wouldn’t be any satisfaction in that.”
“And the ultimate goal is always personal satisfaction, isn’t it?”
“That seems to be the general consensus,” I said, without hesitation.
He deftly uncorked the bottle. “You’re an odd little creature. So serious. You’ve lived on Vinalhaven your whole life?”
Feeling insulted, I frowned. “Yes.”
“And your family?”
“What about them?”
“Mom and dad, happily married? Three younger siblings?”
I shook my head. Stick to the facts and hope he didn’t pry. “I never met my father. Mother ran off when I was two. I was mostly in foster care, and sometimes with my grandmother.”
For a second he didn’t say anything, frowning as he filled his glass. Then he came toward me, taking a sip of wine as he strolled. “I’m sorry. Family doesn’t always live up to our expectations.”
Most people didn’t live up to my expectations. At a certain point you stopped having them. “YOLO,” I told him, going for flippant, because I felt the familiar stain of shame that I was the poor social services girl. “Make the best of it, right?”
He sat down on the couch and when I expected him to sink back into it, master of his home, he actually set his glass on the coffee table and leaned forward, forearms on his knees. “Don’t go Valley Girl on me, I’m begging you. If you say you’re going to take a selfie I guarantee I will stab myself in the face. No. Just no. I hate it on anyone, but even more on you because you don’t mean it.”
The conviction with which he spoke had me raising my eyebrows. “I should have read the job description more carefully.” Then because I couldn’t resist, I added, “Note to self: No selfies.”
The corner of his mouth turned up, and he relaxed back against the cushions. “Your delivery definitely isn’t funny, but you are. Welcome to Richfield, Tiffany.” He raised his glass in salute. “Where the truth sets you free.”
Now it was my turn to smile, before I could stop myself. I tried to dial it back, but I was too incredulous to prevent my mouth was splitting, even as I wanted to wipe it away.
“What?” he asked, pausing as he reached for his glass.
“That’s such a lie,” I told him.
Mr. Gold smiled. “Truth.” He popped the second half of his doughnut in his mouth.
Amelia had burrowed her head further between my legs and I stroked behind her ears. “You’re so sweet,” I murmured to her, more comfortable looking down at her than at my employer.