Page 5 of Impossible Bachelor (Bachelor Tower 2)
“No way.” Mr. Dias slaps his hands together in excitement. “The famous Miss Kylie. It’s so nice to finally meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too,” I say coolly. I don’t like that he knows more about me than I do about him. How does he know Penny? I take another look around the place. This is exactly where Penny would get her coffee. I prefer chain shops where I can reliably get exactly what I want each time. Penny chooses places like this. Valuing personal interactions over quality. Classic Penny.
“Are you hungry?” Mr. Dias looks as though he just proposed marriage to us. The anticipation on his face is unnerving. Clearly bringing us some food would make his night.
“We are starving. We just worked up quite an appetite.” Ben winks at me for our inside joke. Mr. Dias smiles in approval and hands over two paper menus. I kick Ben under the table.
He grins at me unapologetically. I pick up my menu and whip it open, letting that be my rebuttal. There are only a few options. Some sandwiches. Quiche. Soup. Salad.
“I’ll bring you a couple of coffees and you two take your time. It’s quiet tonight. Stay as long as you like,” Mr. Dias says from across the shop. He hustles toward his antique coffee machines and gets to work fiddling with them.
“You come here often?” I ask, though it’s a stupid question with an obvious answer.
He doesn’t bother to look over his menu. “A couple times a week. It’s nice to go someplace where they know your name, isn’t it?”
“I guess.” I think through all the places that call me Miss Fuller. I’m used to staff jumping to their feet when I walk in. They do it because I tip well. They do it because they know I expect good service. “Not like this.”
“Are you happy, Kylie?”
His question bursts out of nowhere, and I’m not prepared for it. I answer in a defensive tone. “Of course I am. I’m at the top of my career. I’ve met every goal I’ve set for myself. I’m exactly where I want to be. Why wouldn’t I be happy?”
Mr. Dias slides two coffees in front of us and waits patiently while we order. I welcome the break in the conversation.
Ben makes some suggestions based on his favorite dishes. I order a salad. He looks disappointed, and I tell myself I don’t care.
“How are your sisters, Ben?” Mr. Dias asks, his order pad spilling out of his pocket. He’s disheveled but in a sweet familiar way that reminds me of my father.
“They’re well. Still driving me crazy, but they said thank you for the beans you sent. Best coffee they’ve ever had. You have to let me pay for them.”
“Get out of town,” Mr. Dias says in his raspy heavy accent. “It’s a gift. You’ve brought us lots of business and helped with the website. You wouldn’t let us pay you. We’re grateful.”
Mr. Dias bows a little and heads back into the kitchen.
“You have sisters?” I ask, leaning back in the booth and trying to cobble together a better picture of Ben. I don’t want to be interested in his life, but I am. Maybe if I figure him out, I’ll realize I can package him neatly in the box he belongs in and stuff him away.
“Four. And it’s about as hectic as you’d expect. But I can’t imagine life without them.”
“Are you close?”
“Very much so. They cross the line every now and then when they try to set me up on dates, but their hearts are in the right place. At least they don’t dress me up for tea parties anymore.”
“They did not do that.”
“Oh, they did.”
“And you willingly admit it?”
His chest puffs with pride. “It made me into who I am today. You cannot embarrass a man who has survived four sisters.”
“You’re proving that tonight.”
Ben chuckles, and I can’t help but join in.
“They’re all married now and popping out kids, so I take my revenge by eating ice cream in front of them whenever they say they’re dieting. I wake up the babies when I visit. I bought my oldest nephew drums.”
I smile. “Cruel but I like it.”
“Occasionally I wear a bowl of that ice cream on my head when they get pissed, but it’s worth it.”
I can easily picture that scene as well.
He continues, “They get me back by setting me up on blind dates—often surprise blind dates. They say it’s not to make me suffer, but I wonder.”
“Sounds horrible.”
“It’s not all that bad. How about you? What does the love life of a CFO look like?” Casual but direct. It’s a style I don’t see often.
“No drama in my dates.” I fold my hands and rest them on the table. “I’ve cracked the code to the correct way to date.”
“This I need to hear.”
“It’s like any other contract you enter into. Eyes wide open. Clear rules. Consequences when those rules are broken.”
“Like safe words? It gets too kinky and you say space shuttle or something?”
Space shuttle? What the hell? I’d tease him about that if I wasn’t fighting back an image of him tied naked to my bed. I shake my head to clear my thoughts. “No. It’s about honoring terms of a relationship. Needs are met. Lines are not crossed. It’s perfect.”
“Have you considered writing greeting cards? You’re a real romantic at heart.”
“I’m a realist. Why does love need to be messy? How about a well-functioning partnership between two adults? Why can’t that be a thing?”
“Do you have a thing? What’s his name?” He’s leaning in, completely engrossed but clearly not sold.
“Clint. He’s a pilot. He comes through town about once a month. We have lively conversation at a gorgeous five-star restaurant. We discuss the economy. My job. His travels. We debate. If I have an event, he comes with me. He’s usually here for a long weekend then he’s back to work. It fits perfectly into my life. We don’t argue because we don’t smother each other.”
“You like him?”
“He’s fine.”
“Another nice Hallmark card. That’s a real ringing endorsement.”
“He’s a hardworking, serious man. His job requires a lot of his time, but he has his future planned out. He knows where he’s going.”
“And that’s what you want long term?”
“God no. Don’t be ridiculous. Nothing lasts.”
“Interesting.”
“Romance is a myth. It’s like makeup. People invented it to cover the truth. Cavemen weren’t running around writing poetry for women and our species continued.”
“So you’re into cavemen.”
“I’m into things that matter. I’m a healthy adult. I like sex like everyone else. I just don’t need to douse it in flowers.”
“What do you have against flowers?”
“You can’t eat them. Essentially they’re rotting from th
e moment they’re cut. It’s the equivalent of walking by a trashcan and throwing money straight in.”
“So what does a man buy you to show you he’s thinking of you?”
“Nothing. That’s the point. I don’t need him to do more than show up.”
Ben is quiet for a moment. What is he thinking? I tell myself I don’t care. I am who I am. I was this way before I met him. I will sure as hell be this way after tonight. He is just a fellow tenant from my building. We’re passing time together. Nothing more. “Am I different than the women your sisters set you up with?”
“You are.”
“You’re smiling again.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
“Because I never go out with them more than once, and I’m already trying to figure out how to get you to go out with me again.”
“There won’t be a next time.”
“I admire your confidence, but you’re underestimating my lure.” His face is serious now, but there’s a flash of mischief in his eyes.
Mr. Dias carries our food to the table and presents it proudly. Ben’s looks divine. The plates aren’t fancy and there is no useless little parsley leaves decorating the corner. It’s simple. Bare-bones good food from a nice man who cares about what he does. I don’t hate it.
My eyes fix on Ben for a moment. I want to find something wrong with him. There is obviously something. That’s a given. I mean he has a penis, which means he has hidden character flaws. Those two things go together like peanut butter and jelly. Women are easier to read.
“Something wrong?” Ben asks, tilting his head to the side and eyeing me closely.
“Of course there is. I’m just trying to figure out what,” I answer, knowing it will confuse the hell out of him. “But not with the food. The food looks amazing.”
I’m lying. My salad looks pale and tasteless next to his Reuben.
He asks for a second plate and puts half of his food on it then pushes it in front of me.
“No, thank you,” I say automatically, but my mouth is watering.
“Try it,” he insists.
I look down at the plate and growl, “I don’t really do a lot of bread. I don’t miss it though.”
He holds a piece in front of my mouth. “You’re not as good of a liar as you think you are. One bite, Kylie. Don’t leave me hanging here.”
