Page 38 of Mr. Hotshot CEO
He shrugs. “I know someone. Plus, it’s only five fifteen, and I had to promise we’d be done by seven.”
I open my menu. Everything sounds so good. I try to ignore the prices—those don’t need to factor into my decision.
Of course, money doesn’t buy happiness. Well, it probably does if it brings you out of poverty, because living in poverty is stressful and exhausting, but if you have a reasonably comfortable life, like me, money isn’t going to buy you happiness. Even though I agreed to this arrangement to get money for the trip and for Naomi, I know this.
Though at the moment, I’m quite happy. I’m practically bouncing in my seat because I’m so excited.
Julian looks at me curiously, and I realize I’m literally bouncing in my seat like a child.
“Were you always like this?” he asks.
I stop bouncing, a little embarrassed. “No. Something happened when I was in undergrad, and for a long time, I couldn’t feel joy. At all. When I started to experience joy again, it felt miraculous.”
That’s the truth without the details.
There are moments when I think my depression is a good thing because it helps me appreciate my mental health when I have it, but mostly, I just wish it away.
Julian looks like he wants to ask me what happened in undergrad, but then he drops his gaze to his menu. “Would you like a bottle of wine?”
“No, that’s okay.” That’s my instinctive response, but then I remember I’m with Julian. “I mean...sure. Yes. We can have wine, but you have to choose because I don’t know anything about it.”
“Red or white?”
“Whatever you like. I’m not picky.”
Our waitress comes around and fills our water glasses. Julian gives her a charming smile. She beams back and he orders something.
“I’ve never ordered a bottle of wine at a restaurant before,” I say after she walks away.
“Really?”
“I’ve ordered a glass of house wine, but a bottle? No.”
When I go out with my family, we don’t order alcohol. It’s different when it’s just me and my sister, but I rarely order more than one drink. With my friends, we’re more likely to get a pitcher of sangria.
And dates? Well, I don’t date.
The waitress returns with our red wine. She opens the bottle and pours a small amount for Julian. After he tastes it and nods his approval, she pours us each a glass.
I feel so grown-up right now.
He lifts his glass, and I realize he’s waiting for me to do the same.
“Cheers,” he says, his gaze connecting with mine.
This evening is almost surreal. I’m with Julian Fong on the rooftop patio of a fancy restaurant, sharing a bottle of wine.
I try the wine. “Oh my God. This is practically good enough to give me an orgasm.”
He raises his eyebrows, and I clamp my hand over my mouth. I can’t believe I said that.
“I mean,” I say hurriedly, “it’s very good and you have excellent taste. I don’t know anything about wine, as I told you before, but I know I like this very much, and please don’t ask if I can detect notes of black currants or anything like that.”
“I won’t,” he says, humor in his voice. Then he gives me a heated look, just for a moment, before sipping his wine.
I have to admit, I kind of wish he’d offer to give me an orgasm, even though I’d have to decline.
I finally decide what I want to eat, and we place our order. Our first two dishes arrive fairly quickly. Labneh and lamb ribs. I break off a piece of flatbread and swipe it through the labneh—yogurt cheese—and pop it into my mouth.
