Page 33 of Twisted Little Thing

The driver delivers us to the café that we originally agreed upon as a meeting place. Once inside, Evan orders me a cappuccino and a cake he insists I have to try despite my protests of not being hungry.

"You'll try it," he insists, after we are seated and our order is placed. "If you don't eat it, I will, but I'm pretty sure we'll have to fight over it."

"So, you decide what I am eating now, too?" I jokingly ask.

He smirks. "I don’t deny that I would like that. But I know you're not ready for that yet."

The fact that he calls me "not ready" confuses me for a moment.

Ready for what exactly?

"You said we need to talk," he adds then, interrupting my thoughts. He makes eye contact expectantly. "What about?"

"Didn't you see the picture I sent you?" I ask incredulously.

He nods. "I did."

I am a bit perplexed at his calm demeanor. Shouldn't he be on the defensive right now? Why am I leading the conversation instead of him heading me off with an explanation?

"I had no idea," I stutter. "Who you are. One would think you'd mention something like that..."

"Something like what?" he asks. "And what does that mean, who I am? Who am I?"

"Well," I start. "You know... you are someone. Someone who is a famous billionaire, someone that paparrazi follow around, someone featured in articles in magazines, someone who is named one of the hottest billionaire bachelors in the world, someone who–”

"And does any of that mean anything to you?" he interrupts. "Would you have been impressed or liked me more if I had told you?"

"Well, I mean–”

"Do you really think that's the way I should introduce myself to someone like you?" He continues. He appears to be offended, angry even. Or maybe he is hurt. It is hard to tell with how calm and guarded he is acting.

"Someone like me?" I ask, puzzled. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know very well what I mean," he says. "Look, all you need to know is that I didn't hide anything from you. I told you my name – and I was pleasantly surprised that you had no idea who I was. Usually women your age are caught up on tabloid gossip, and know that I am the ex-boyfriend of Sheila Buffay. It’s not exactly the best first impression, wouldn’t you agree?"

He leans back in his seat and pauses for a moment when the server sets down our cappuccinos and the cake in front of us.

"I'm sorry," I say apologetically.

He doesn't say anything, but motions for me to sample the cake by nodding toward it. "Try it."

"Yes, Sir," I whisper, just loudly enough for him to hear.

I glance up at him to see his reaction as I dip my fork into the delicate dessert. He casts me a satisfied smile.

"See," he says. "That is the part I would like to focus on when we are together."

"What part?" I ask, my mouth half full as I chew on the first little piece of the cake. What a classy lady I am.

But damn, it tastes good.

He must be able to read the satisfaction in my face, because he smirks at me as if he caught me doing something naughty.

"Good, huh?" he says.

I nod hastily. "Yes, very."

"The part I was talking about," he adds, "is the unbelievable chemistry between us. I am good at reading people, so you don't have to tell me that you are feeling it, too. I can see it. So, just continue eating your cake, while I tell you what I want you to know, understand?"

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