Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
“Would you change it?” I’m not ready to let this topic go. It feels important, like a start or no-start to something beyond sex for us. Actually, if Chance has more of a prince mentality than I thought, I don’t know that I could sleep with him again either, no matter how good the sex is. It’d change the way I feel about our dynamic if he thinks people exist to serve him.
He thinks for a minute but smiles. “Nope.”
I’m point oh two seconds away from tossing my napkin to the table and sashaying my happy self right out of this fancy joint, making the last sight he sees of me be my ass leaving him.
But Chance goes on. “Instead of changing me, I change others, giving them the opportunities that being privileged since birth, through no effort of my own, has brought. In a foundational way, that’s why the Gentlemen’s Club is important. It’s a Sisyphean task sometimes, but getting the guys to a point where they can walk into any room—whether filled with CEOs and presidents or janitors and beggars—and feel confident and be successful, that’s the goal.”
The irritation I’d been working up deflates with every word, and I realize that I’m the one being bitchy. Chance has done nothing but be polite and let people do their jobs. I’m the one judging him, assuming he thinks they’re somehow beneath him. But he doesn’t feel that way at all.
I take a sip of water, considering that, and do a bit of self-analyzing that’s not particularly comfortable or complimentary.
Maybe it’s that I feel out of place in his world? I’ve never been to a restaurant like this, or on a date with a man like Chance, so maybe I’m the one feeling a little inadequate and chafing at that?
“I’m sorry. I misjudged you,” I confess, knowing that he read my irritation and ugly assumptions in my questions and tone. He smiles warmly, seeming completely unoffended by my bitchiness. Hoping it’ll break the awkwardness, I point out, “Not exactly everybody goes around throwing Greek mythology into regular conversation, though, do they?”
He blushes, and his eyes fall to the table, making him look more adorably boyish than he should.
“Growing up, I always had my nose in books,” Chance says. “Being seven years younger than Cam and three younger than Carter, I had this sort of middle ground thing going for a long time. And they were big, gregarious personalities. I was quieter, even a little nerdy—though if you tell anyone I admitted that, I’ll deny it vehemently.”
“You? Nerdy?” I echo doubtfully.
His grin is self-deprecating, and I struggle to see any shred of nerdiness in the confident, well-spoken, sexy man across from me.
“Maybe intellectual is the better description? Always reading, planning, dreaming. But Carter usually went for calling me a nerd when he swiped my books and hid them from me.”
I think about what I know about my bestie’s husband. “Yeah, I can totally see him doing that. He’s a good guy . . . now. Luna did some major rehab on him, but I can see him being an ass when you were younger. Or maybe like, last year?” I smile with the jab at his brother, whom I do like now that he’s with my friend.
“Last week, more like it,” Chance corrects, but it’s good-natured shit-talking about his brother, not actually insulting.
A waitress comes by to take our order, and though Chance makes recommendations on what he’s tried and enjoyed previously, he’s happy for me to order whatever I’d like.
I start with a tofu square that’s been seasoned with what looks like everything-but-the-bagel seasoning and wisps of grass. “Enjoy,” the waitress says, professionally remaining completely straight-faced even as I tilt the plate to see if there’s more food hiding under the tiny chunk of tofu.
“If the entrée is this small, I’m gonna need to run through McDonald’s on the way home, ‘kay?” I tell Chance.
He laughs and asks, “You’ve got McDonald’s money?”
Shocked—both at the joke and that he knows the reference—I balk. “You did not just ask me that!” But I’m laughing too.
“One of the club guys always says that,” Chance says, not surprisingly. “Told me that he knew he was going to be okay the first time he ordered a combo meal without checking his bank account balance.”
“Been there,” I agree as I take a small nibble of the tofu appetizer, mostly because that’s all it is—a nibble. But it’s tasty. “Mmm, the sauce is good, a little dark tasting?”
Food critic, I’m not. But it’s the best I can do because the blackish drizzle does taste . . . dark.
“It’s the truffles,” Chance agrees, taking a bite of his appetizer, which is something with beet juice jelly cubes over heirloom tomatoes and watermelon, with white chunks of feta cheese. “What about you, do you have family?”