“Meaning?” I pick up my fork and clean it on my napkin before starting with the salad, still watching him with a solemn expression.
“Meaning, I’ve spent many intimate hours with you and have yet to see any sign of a date or fuck-buddy keeping you cheerful.” He raises his eyebrows, then digs into his food again. No shame in what he just said. I swallow hard.
“I’ve more important things to do and no desire to date or find a fuck-buddy.” I grimace at his term, completely unamused, throwing him a furrowed brow.
“Might put a smile on your face.” He’s grinning. I lift my chin towards him and throw on a fake smile as widely as I can muster. Forced, of course.
“There. See. No man needed,” I point out as he laughs and shakes his head at me in amusement.
“How come you never seem to date anyone?” he asks. “I mean, you’re not exactly unattractive. You could easily pull; I’ve seen the way men check you out. Are you holding out for me to hang up my playboy hat and settle down?” he chuckles. The thought makes me feel odd inside, but I remain impassive.
“I’ve more than enough testosterone to deal with as it is, having you glued to my hip daily, Carrero. And no, I don’t ever see you taking that hat off and being happy with only one woman to keep your interest.” I’m trying to focus on my food as my cheeks warm up; I’m not comfortable with this ever-probing fascination with my lack of a boyfriend. It makes me squirm in my seat.
“Emma?” He looks at me pointedly, with seriousness coming through the boyish charm, “Even women have needs.” Do they?
I think sourly. I’m pretty sure I’ve never needed to go there. I tried it when I was younger, with non-serious boyfriends and the pressure of other kids doing it. I wouldn’t say I liked it much, and it only left me feeling empty.
“You would know, of course, being one hundred percent hotblooded male,” I laugh at him, raising a brow at the man who is as far from feminine as any guy can get.
“I go to bed with enough women to know it’s not only men who crave sex. There’s no way you can tell me you don’t get the raging horn at all.” He’s a little too focused on me now and looking too invested in this.
“Jake, can we talk about something else? I don’t think I want to talk about sex with my boss over lunch.” An anxious knot has moved up into my stomach at this topic of conversation, making me uncomfortable, like I always am, when any discussion is turned on me and my life. Something he often does. He has no sense of boundaries.
“Do you need me to set you up? Are you secretly man shy? Or maybe I should show you what a real man feels like,” he winks at me, and I just roll my eyes, suppressing a smile at his humor.
“Like I would ever trust your choice of men … or you! The Daniel Hunters of this world don’t do a thing for me,” I smile sweetly.
That’s an understatement.
“So, what is your type of man?” he asks curiously, focusing on me instead of his food. I throw him a dark look, indicating that I really mean we are done with this topic.
My type? Far, far, away from me.
“Okay, okay. Are you going home to visit your mom anytime soon?” he asks, pushing in a new direction instead, but I just drop my fork, mood dying and temper punching me in the stomach.
For God’s sake.
“This again?” I snap and shake my head at him, irritated, being too sharp with him in reaction.
“Don’t roll your eyes and wave your hands at me!” He shoves my foot with his under the table, and I kick him back, a light, satisfied smirk crossing my mouth as he grimaces with a glare, relieving me of my temper a little.
“Why do you always bring her up?” I accuse, pissed that he does this … a lot.
“Because I find it weird that you never go home to see her, Emma. She’s your mother, and Chicago is just two hours on a plane. It’s hardly on the other side of the world. You know you can use the jet whenever you need it.” He’s frowning at me, all green eyes and stiff squared jaw, looking wounded at my anger over this, reverting to a child.
“I don’t need to run home and see ‘Mommy,’ Jake. I’m a big girl with my own life,” I scold. I hate that he always presses me about this at every opportunity.
“I go see my ‘Mommy’ every couple of weeks. She gave birth to me and raised me. I can’t imagine going five years without one trip home. It’s odd.” He narrows his brows at me, and that green gaze penetrates mine.
“It’s not like she hasn’t come here to New York. I don’t need
to go home.” My food isn’t satisfying me like it usually does, and I realize the conversation is souring the taste. I put down my napkin now I’ve lost my appetite.
“You grew up there; don’t you miss it?” Jake is one of the most intrusive people I’ve ever known; he has a severe craving to pry into my life every day, and he is as subtle as a bull. He’s still eating and trying to come across as non-intrusive, but I’m not fooled.
“No,” I snap, finally letting the irritation show, losing my cool with him properly.
“Did you leave for a reason, and that’s why you get so pissed about this?” he asks. My eyes flash up as though he’s struck me, but I quickly look back down. I won’t have this conversation; he needs to leave it alone and know when he’s crossing the line again. I’m tired of this.
“Drop it,” I say quietly, the rush of emotion running through me, dampening all the happiness I had on arriving here. It’s not a good feeling.
“You never talk about you, Emma. You know everything about me,” he almost pleads, but it falls on deaf ears.
“I never knew your father had an affair before now!” I snap a little more harshly this time, looking at him accusingly and hoping to push this away.
“But you do know now,” he sulks, his green eyes narrowing under furrowed brows. A little boy scolded comes to mind, equally as stubborn as me.
Sometimes we bicker; it usually goes like this and usually for similar topics. I sigh heavily, annoyed at … well, everything. I feel guilty for making him like this and regret my harsh tone immensely. Jake makes me feel bad so easily.
“I’m sure there are things you haven’t told me, Jake. Everyone is entitled to privacy.” I remember the brief look earlier in our conversation and see it reflected in his eyes. Something is there, after all. Thankfully, it seems to cause him to back off, realizing he has secrets too.
“Fine, but it’s just weird.” He dips his eyes down to his plate, a definite sulk-face on. I cannot help the tug of affection that softens my whole attitude.
Man-child returns.
“You are the king of weird; you attract massive amounts of weird, so you have some nerve,” I chuckle, trying a friendlier tone to bring humor back into the conversation. I hate when we bicker and argue over pointless things, and as his frown smooths out to be replaced with a growing warmth, he knows what I’m hinting.
“You’re talking about that freaky Lisa?” he smiles slightly, mood dispersing. Such is our way.
Yes, he got my hint. There wasn’t anything weirder than that.