Page 23 of Beautiful Beast

Except my family life didn’t exactly give me prime examples of parental figures, so I just blurt out the first things I can think of and hope for the best.

“Lawn bowling and Sudoku.”

Adam laughs. “Close. I grew up at yacht club and fencing competitions. Now seriously, go away. I have a lot to do this evening, and if you’re not leaving that casserole for me to eat in peace, I’ll just order one.”

“Clearly, you didn’t read the books I left for you.” I make a tsk-tsk sound and give him my best stern expression that I typically only break out for the unruly toddlers at story time.

“Are you a teacher?”

It’s the first actual question he’s ever asked me that shows he’s at least somewhat interested in me and my life.

I’ll take it.

“I’m a librarian,” I explain. “But I do manage our children’s programming, so teaching is a big part of what I do every day.”

His eyebrows rise comically high. “You’re kidding.”

“Why would I be kidding?”

“Aren’t librarians supposed to be… I don’t fucking know… Matronly? They’re definitely not supposed to look like you.”

“That’s a bit of a stereotype. You’re supposed to be some Wall Street big shot. Shouldn’t you be clean-cut, not covered in tattoos and, I don’t know, have some basic social skills?”

“I’m not a Wall Street anything,” Adam snaps. “Well… At least not yet.”

Sore spot.

He has a lot of those.

And it’s time to keep pushing.

I’m close to breaking through the ice, I can feel it.

“What happened to your face?” I ask softly.

He flinches like I slapped him, and I almost regret the question. But whatever it is that happened must be why he’s such a jerk, and I’m dying to know. He’s been nothing but rude to me, so I shouldn’t feel bad about being nosy and rude right back.

And besides, he’s walking around with a bandana over his face, which is just calling more attention to whatever he’s concealing underneath it. He can’t be surprised that someone would ask him about it.

Especially an inquiring soul like me.

He clearly doesn’t want to be seen, so there must be a compelling reason that got him out of the house. I can’t imagine he was pushing a shopping cart through the grocery store – do rich people even shop for themselves? – and I want to ask him what his deal is.

But something tells me that billionaires aren’t used to being questioned.

“Or is the reason you live in such a nice place because you’re a criminal?” I try to lighten the mood with what I hope is a fake question, but if he smiles, it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You and Buster aren’t coming in–”

“Do you hate dogs?” I interrupt.

“Of course, I don’t hate dogs. What kind of a monster hates dogs?”

“So, you hate me then.”

“I don’t even know you.”

“Don’t you want to?”

---