Page 95 of Her Billionaire Boss
“There’s no drama.”Other than what I was manufacturing at the moment.
“Oh, good.Because I thought we were wasting time on this for no reason.”He consulted his tablet.“I suppose now is not a good time to remind you that Mr.Ashe has you booked for a table for two at Marseilles at seven-thirty?”
Oh god.That’s a fancy place.He’s totally going to propose.Cold sweat rolled down the back of my neck.I cleared my throat.“Fancy place?”
His eyebrows rose above the rims of his glasses.“Um, yeah.”
“So… cocktail dress?”I asked.
He said nothing for a long moment and blinked at me in silence with his unreadable face.Finally, he said, “With all due respect: I am gay.But I’m notProject Runwaygay.You’re going to have to ask someone else.”
“You know, a lot of people would fire their assistant for that kind of back talk,” I warned.
“A lot of bosses wouldn’t fire their assistants after the words, ‘I’m gay,’ came out of their mouths,” he countered.“Go watchPhiladelphiaa few times and get back to me.I’m going for coffees.Want one?”
“Yeah.White chocolate oat milk latte,” I said in utter defeat.I didn’t wait for him to leave before I put my head down on the table.
Matt was going to propose.
And I had no idea how I was going to respond.
* * * *
My anxiety was too big.I couldn’t stand the thought of seeing Matt before dinner.He would sense whatever was on my mind.I didn’t know if that was because he knew me so well, or because of my face and its constant betrayal whenever I tried to hide my emotions.As far as I knew, he wasn’t aware that I’d overheard his conversation with his mother, or that I knew anything about the family ring.
What if it was ugly?
I texted Matt that I had errands to run and not to wait for me at home.I would meet him at the restaurant at our reservation time.He’d reassured me that he would be working pretty late, anyway, and had already picked up his suit from the apartment.Translation: he’d sent someone else to pick it up.At least, he wouldn’t be there when I headed home to get ready.
I chafed at the mention of the suit and stewed all the way to the apartment.Why had he brought that up?To passive-aggressively remind me of the dress code?Because I still wasn’t fancy and sophisticated enough to even anticipate a dress code?Did he think I would roll up to Marseilles barefoot, in denim cut-offs and a bikini top?
“Don’t borrow trouble,”I heard my dad’s voice in my head.And as always, the dad voice was right.Matt had probably anticipated me asking if he had something to change into, since he’d be going directly from work to the restaurant.That’s how the conversation would have gone, if he hadn’t volunteered the information.
Why was I suddenly thinking the absolute worst of him?He’d done nothing wrong.
My therapist and I had discussed ad nauseum my tendency to ascribe judgment to everything Matt or anyone in his social circle might say to me.Instead of jumping to negative conclusions about what people meant, she’d advised me to look at it from an alternate point of view: what did my belief—that others thought poorly of me by default—say about that individual as a person?I was insulting Matt by assuming that he would be ashamed of me and quick to safeguard himself from embarrassment.
But it didn’t help that I’d heard him arguing with his mother over the distinction between our classes.Elizabeth didn’t want him to propose to me.Her position had been clear from the few sentences I’d overheard before I’d hightailed it out of there.The same sick, rejected feeling that had gripped me all the way back to Matt’s room that night returned with a vengeance.
I combatted it by making myself look as hot and expensive as possible.
When I walked into the private dining room he’d reserved at Marseilles—a red flag the size of a rain tarp at a Major League ball game—his expression was proof that I’d pulled off my sartorial mission.Matt rose from the table, buttoning his jacket with one hand in the smooth motion of someone who’d been to a thousand fancy dinners and had the mannerisms so memorized, they were as unconscious as breathing.
“You look incredible,” he said, taking me in from my expertly curled hair to my form-fitting—but not too tight—black strapless dress with its notched neckline and all-over embroidery of jewel-toned flowers.
“Thanks.”I made a little turn in my strappy black stilettos.“I guess I clean up pretty good.”
He pulled my chair out for me and gave me a wink.“I know.I’ve taken enough showers with you.”
His hand skimmed the bare skin between my shoulder blades as I sat.
“So,” I said with a shaky exhale.“What’s the occasion?”
He returned to his chair.“I thought we had stuff to talk about, and it would be more fun over an incredible dinner.”
“No menus,” I observed.
“Prix fix.”He shrugged.“I hope you don’t mind?”
