Page 15 of My Secret Santa Dallas

He nearly spat out his tea. “Five thousand for a suit?”

“You want me to tell you about the seventy-five thousand ones?” I asked.

“Rich people,” he muttered. “You’d have to kill me before I buy that shit.”

“You’d have to finance a hundred thousand for it,” I said. “Now, stop ignoring my question. What sort of women do you like?”

Dallas sat back in his seat and drummed his fingers on the table; oddly, my eyes were drawn to his long fingers and blunt nails. “Before I tell you, I am calling bullshit on you liking nerds. You don’t like nerds; you probably go for cutthroat businessmen with two summer homes in Ibiza and take private planes like I used to take the subway.”

“I love beautiful women, don’t get me wrong. But the women I’m attracted to tend to be strong, serious, down-to-earth types. No frills, no fashion plates… no…” he looked at me, up and down, slowly, like molasses on a cold winter day.

“Me,” I said. “Or women like me.”

“I was about to say rich, high-maintenance socialites,” he said.

Cocking my head, I asked, “Do you get a lot of cowgirls in Cali?”

“No.”

I leaned in, “Newsflash, Ringo, the girls there come from a tier just below high maintenance.”

Miss Betty came with a tray of steaming food and sides, “Here you go, darlings.”

Popping the okra bite into my mouth, I almost groaned at the taste. God above, it was good, and I couldn’t help butleave a groan. Dallas reached for his glass and took a hefty swallow; it was telling, but he didn’t need to know that.

When he narrowed his focus on his food, his brows were lowered, “See, I don’t fully get you. Why is a rich southern belle like you working with a beef company in Texas? Shouldn’t you be partying all night and networking all day? You clearly come from money, so why?”

I twisted my lips, “When you are raised in a male-dominated family and are raised to think women should be pretty ornaments on someone’s arm, wearing summer frocks and sipping mint cocktails, not in power suits and brokering million-dollar deals.”

“So, it’s a pissing contest for you?” he asked.

“Seeing as I don’t have the required equipment for such a contest, I consider it more like making a statement. Not all women want to be mindless housewives or ornamental decorations on some man’s arm. Some of us have dreams and aspirations above being tied to the southern belle stereotype.”

He dipped an onion ring in the sauce. “Who are you trying to prove this point to?”

“Myself,” I replied.

“Bullshit.”

I swore in my head. “Fine, I’m sticking it to my asshat of a brother. Despite excelling beyond belief, with all my degrees, social cachet, and accomplishments, they still handed the family company to my brother. The same old male patronage bullshit that has ruled the south for centuries.”

“There it is,” Dallas said, “The real you. You’re chomping at the bit to show old Grandaddy you’re better.

“Once upon a time,” I said, cutting into my chicken. “I am happy where I am now.”

“No, you’re not. You still haven’t forgotten or forgiven your grandpa for overlooking you,” Dallas said.

“In the same way you haven’t forgiven yourself for leaving the way you had?” I asked. “Or how you stayed away long enough that your parents passed with no contact from you? Throwing stones in your glass house? I did my research, you know.”

His face stoned off. “Don’t even try it.”

“Try what?” I tried to appear innocent, “I am just matching your energy. Isn’t that we do around here?”

Dallas’ brows lowered, “You don’t know me.”

“Neither do you,” I told him.

He lifted his hand and called for a server to box up our food, but I didn’t stop him. We made a peaceful goodbye with Miss Betty, and I studiously ignored the way the lady looked between Dallas and me.

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