I drop my head into my hand in mock exasperation. “I am not an angel. Maybe I just seem like one compared to your usual women.”
“I have women?”
I humph. “Don’t pretend you don’t.”
“Okay.” He holds his left arm out in a surrender gesture. “But I’m not pretending.”
“That’s ridiculous. Everyone knows you have a bunch of different women.”
“Have them?” He shoots a pointed look at me. “As in, they’re mine?”
“As in you sleep around. You’re a man whore.”
He smiles, closed-lipped. “Why can’t I just be a whore? Why do you have to distinguish me as a man-whore?”
I snort. “So you’re a feminist now?”
“Surely you’ve heard.”
“I haven’t.”
“Well, allow me to enlighten you.” He holds up his hand to tick points again. “Women own at this point about thirty-two percent of my company. If any of them get pregnant and want to be pregnant, they get six months maternity leave. They make more money than the men. Plus my dear friend Rachelle, who you may have noticed is a woman, runs the place. A woman who is married to a woman. Also, I think it’s kind of hot when women don’t shave their legs. So yeah, I’m a f**king feminist.” He looks at me, dead pan, and I laugh.
He laughs, too, but as soon as his eyes meet mine again, he looks back down at the wrist he’s taping a bandage onto. Like he remembered he’s not supposed to talk to me.
But I’m not going to give up. “I took a course women’s studies course in college. And while a lot of those things are good, I, uh—”
He snorts. “You don’t think I’ll be invited to any bra burnings?”
“I don’t think that’s even been a thing since seventies.”
“Maybe not,” he concedes. “But what about your feminist credentials?”
Hmmmmm… “I think men should manicures and pedicures, just the same as women.”
He laughs at that, his face alight. “You’re a trailblazer.”
“Toenails are the most important. I like a man with well-trimmed toenails.”
His shoulders are shaking with his quiet laughter now. As he settles down, his eyes tug up to mine. “I’ll be sure to keep my toenails away from you.”
I smile, big and slightly silly. “I didn’t say all men have gross toe-nails. Just that there’s something nice about groomed hands and feet.” My gaze zips over him, from his neatly tousled hair to his crisp white shirt, to his big hands, spread out on the table. “Have you ever gotten your nails done?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“Maybe I could do them for you while I’m here.”
Marchant looks slightly helpless. “You could...”
I grin. “Good. It’s settled, then. After dinner, you’re getting mani-pedi’d.”
He chuckles, like he thinks I’m crazy, and gets up without another word, putting the first aid kit back in the cabinet and disappearing in the direction of the front door.
Minutes tick by. HGTV shifts to a show about buying real estate in Hawaii. I keep looking across the kitchen, toward the doorway that adjoins it to the den. Finally, I hear the front door open; hear his footsteps through the den. I smell the burgers and then Marchant comes through the doorway, looking slightly like a sexy waiter in his slacks and white shirt.
“Dinner—” he lowers the tray onto the counter— “is served.”
I start to get up, but he waves me down. “What do you like on yours?”
“I’ll take everything.”
He’s quiet as he prepares our burgers, puts some fries on both plates, and opens the refrigerator. “What do you like to drink?”
“Anything is fine. Anything except pineapple juice. Which I doubt you have.”
“You’re right—I don’t. How’s lemonade?”
“It’s good. Thanks.”
A minute later, he’s setting my plate and my glass in front of me. He takes the seat across from me again and barely looks my way as he bites into his burger. In fact, I almost feel like he’s trying not to look at me.
I try my own burger and am surprised by how much I like it. “This is great. I mean…really. What’s your secret?”
He looks briefly my way, smirking. “Bison.”
“Bison?”
“It’s a bison burger.”
“Really?” I take another bite, and…I’m not sure how to describe it. I don’t eat many burgers. “This is my first time eating bison.”
“I’m surprised.”
“Why?”
“I’d figure you’d…have a well-rounded palate.” He’s smiling again now, giving me a hard time.
“You are correct, sir. My tongue is…ah…” I was going to say “well-traveled,” but the double entendre was so obvious even I noticed it. I settle on “experienced,” which I realize the moment it leaves my mouth isn’t any better. Marchant dutifully wiggles his eyebrows, and I roll my eyes. “What you don’t know is: Dad’s vegan, and that’s how we all grew up. So I haven’t been eating meat for very long.”
He wiggles his eyebrows again, still eating his own burger, and I try not to laugh. “I’m also surprised because it has to be on half the menus of the restaurants in Napa.”
“It does?”
He nods seriously. “We’re in the middle of a Bison Boom.”
“I…haven’t heard that.”
“Bison. Boom.”
“Are you in Napa much?”
He shakes his head.
“But you grew up in California?”
“Yes. I did.” He looks weird, and I guess he probably doesn’t like to be reminded of growing up, considering his parents are both gone now. I wrack my brain for a topic that might make him feel better. Less lonely. I think I remember Hunter saying something about a sister, so I ask, “Do you have any siblings?”
He sets his burger down, fixing me with a stare that could melt steel. “I have a sister. Riker. She’s twenty.”
I wait for him to reciprocate, to ask me questions as per the rules of normal conversation, but he just eats quietly, looking maybe slightly pissed off. Or maybe just unhappy. I don’t know. I eat a few of my fries, and tell him “these are good, too,” but he barely looks my way.