Page 52 of Love Not Qualified

So, with my cheeks threatening to burn, I followed his hand and got inside the car on the seat while he occupied his. He started the car and I took a second to analyze the opulence in it. Dark purple lights covered every edge of the car, from under my seat to around the big screen between us, the details covered with wood. Even a few bits of the wheel had small pieces of wood on it.

I sunk into the seat, sighing in relief at the comfort. This waswaybetter than my couch.

“Have you eaten anything?”

My head snapped to him, the beats of my heart accelerating.

Why would he ask that?

Then I tried to relax, knowing it was something normal people ask, whether to make small talk or because they were genuinely interested. I didn’t know which of the options applied to Mr. Graves, but the question unsettled me. The only thing I prayed for was that he couldn’t tell, though the sounds of my uneven breaths gave me away.

I looked around, biting my bottom lip. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I? I did. I had a few great meals, actually,” I replied and internally slapped myself.

He didn’t need to know the only thing I ate today was a protein bar and then felt like throwing up, but I had a feeling my need for defense blew off any certitude of that. A simple “yes” would’ve done it without raising any suspicions.

Because I was afraid of what was hidden in his eyes, I glanced ahead. If he had the smallest squint of reservation about believing me, I might’ve walked out of this car, quit my job, and made sure he never saw me again.

Food talk was something I didn’t take lightly.

“You can tell me about your idea while we get something to eat,” he suggested, and my stupid heart jumped again.

I turned to him, my hands stretched in front of me. “No!” When I noticed the furrow of his brows, I hurried to clarify everything. “I mean, only if you want to eat something, but I’m fine.” I nodded, proud of myself for pulling this off so smoothly.

Right.Sosmoothly.

Mr. Graves ignored my obvious protest and drove away. I tightened the seatbelt around my body, his car roaring as it steered on the street.

Shit, the sound was beautiful.

“I haven’t got the chance to eat dinner, so we’ll go to Yora. You might not be hungry now, but the smell of their food will make you change your mind,” Mr. Graves said, so sure of himself.

I doubt it.

The mere scent of food made my stomach flip, but I didn’t argue with him about it. He could be certain as long as he wanted, I wasn’t going to try to prove to him that the opposite was true. There was no point, anyway. The less he knew, the better.

Mr. Graves took a few turns to the right and then one to the left that took us on a tight street where he parked the car. He knew his way around town if he picked up a place so fitting and so close to where I was.

Old Town was a cheap ass bar for poor people and had a great location. The owner, Bob, bought it fifty years ago and never sold it, no matter how many offers he got from luxurious brands that wanted his spot. For many, his bar was a stain on the long street with showcases that stole your eye and restaurants where celebrities came to eat.

Tristan stopped the car, throwing me one quick glance before leaving his seat. I got out as well, the air sweeping down my clothes once again, except now he didn’t make any inappropriate comments that could warm me whole.

My clothes. Shit.

The second I looked down at myself—at the outfit that seemed a good choice for Old Town—I became self-aware. There was no way I was going to walk into the restaurant where golden chandeliers lit the path to the entrance.

I rubbed my lips together, the gum moving inside my mouth as I patted my hair with a hand. Avoiding his gaze, I looked atYora. “I don’t think my outfit is… fitting,” I said, pointing at my clothes as if he hadn’t seen them already.

Still, his eyes scanned me from my dirty shoes to the faint makeup on my face. Nothing about me or my appearance let it on that I belonged anywhere near a man like Tristan Graves. If anything, I bet I couldn’t go in as a waitress either.

He hummed deeply, those green pupils finding mine. “Your outfit is fine. You don’t need to overdress for a business meeting, especially on such short notice.” Mr. Graves started walking and I followed him, my stomach forming a pit.

A business meeting.

Of course, fool. What did you think this was going to be? A date?

“But… you always overdress,” I pointed out as we continued our path on the stairs.

The doors in front of us opened and without looking at me, he said, “I have a reputation to maintain.”

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