Yeah, I needed an answer to that. An answer that wouldn’t paint me as an asshole with zilch experience with women.

“Because you’re hungry.” I said.

“You’re unbelievable.” She stood. “I’m starving. You’re right. But suddenly the company is making me kind of nauseated.”

“Don’t go,” I said again, this time more strongly. “Please.”

“Please? Why? You tell me I’m beautiful. You make love to me. You order me food at midnight. You speak in beautiful words about art and about life…but then you can’t stop yourself from being a jerk. What’s up with you, anyway?”

If only I could give her an honest answer.

But I couldn’t. Not now. Not ever.

“I want you to stay. I want you to eat until you’re full and satisfied. And then I want to take you into my bedroom.”

“I have work tomorrow.”

“So do I.”

“You don’t work there.”

“Still, I work. Besides, there’s another big meeting tomorrow at ten, during which I suspect we’ll get just as much nothing done as we did today.”

That made her laugh—an adorable laugh because clearly she hadn’t wanted to laugh at all.

I smiled at her.

“You’re impossible,” she said.

“I won’t deny it.”

“I’m going to finish my dinner. Then I’m leaving.”

“Have it your way, but you’re not going anywhere until you tell me what you find so amazing about me.”

She regarded me, an indignant look on her face, and then she shoveled pad thai into her mouth. She was challenging me. Challenging me to make her say something. Challenging me to make her stay.

Fine. I’d accept the challenge. We sat quietly as we both finished our food.

When both our plates were clean, I met her gaze.

She swallowed, placed her plastic utensils on top of her empty paper plate, and returned my stare.

“Your eyes,” she said. “They’re so dark they’re almost black, and I swear to God they get darker when you look at me as intensely as you are now. I know that’s physically not possible, but they do. Your hair. So long and silky. It’s perfect. Not one tiny bit of frizz. Women would kill to have that hair, Roy. Your nose is perfectly aquiline, reminiscent of Michelangelo’s David. And those forearms… Muscular and corded. You know? Other women can have their biceps and traps. Give me a good forearm any day.”

I nearly opened my mouth to ask what was wrong with my biceps and traps, but then remembered she hadn’t seen them. I’d been fully clothed when we’d fucked in the studio, and I’d changed my shirt while she was in the shower.