“You were leaving, you mean.”
The businessmen had returned their attention to their dinner and one another. I shrugged. “If it had just been the one guy, I would have stuck it out. But they were obviously gearing up to make this a game, and I just wanted to eat in peace.”
“Why accept my help, then? Why not just get up and leave?” He seemed genuinely curious about the answer.
“Not all men are assholes. I know that. But those that are fall into different categories. You are an asshole but you’re not that kind of asshole—” I gestured to the men who had bothered me. “That makes you less of an asshole than they are and one I’m willing to put up with so I can eat my medium-rare steak and not whatever dry lump of meat resembling filet mignon they send up as room service.”
“Fair enough.” He took another sip of whiskey.
“So, what is it you do, Caleb?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Small talk?”
“I could keep insulting you instead, if you like?”
I thought I saw his lips begin to smile, but, again, he fought the reaction. Hmm. “I’m the CFO of the UK division of Koto.”
Shocked by this information, I sought to clarify. “The tech company?”
“The very one.” He gave me an arrogant, knowing smirk. “Didn’t expect that, did you?”
“Honestly, no. That’s a pretty big job title you’ve got there. I heard Koto is becoming a real competitor for some of the bigger tech giants.”
Caleb’s eyes glittered suddenly with a fierceness I’d understand when he said, “We’re almost there. And we plan tae surpass them.”
“So you must enjoy numbers?”
“I’m good with numbers.”
I frowned. That wasn’t really an answer, but before I could remark upon it he spoke. “What do you do for a living? Personal shopper?”
“Close.” I shrugged, not letting his snide tone get to me. “I’m an interior designer.”
“Well, either you do very well or you’re a kept woman.”
My plans to not let him get to me flew out the window pretty quickly. Why was the latter even a choice? Did I really say he was any different from those other assholes in the restaurant? My mistake. “Because I flew first class?”
He didn’t even flinch at my snarky tone. “Aye. That, the designer shoes, and the diamonds in your ears and on your wrist.”
“Well, of course I’m a kept woman. And it’s not just one guy I spread for cash. I’ve got three sugardaddies. Lucky girl, huh?”
Caleb rolled his eyes. “You take offense tae everything.”
“Everything you say is offensive.”
“Ah, there you are.” Emily suddenly appeared at the booth, looking a little flustered as she eyed Caleb. “You switched tables.”
“Aye.” He held out his hand for his plate of food, which I noticed was also the filet mignon.
“There you go. Can I get you anything else, sir?”
“No.” He immediately started to dig in without a thank you.
I looked up at Emily and she gave me a pained smile. “I’ll be right back with your order.”
“Thank you so much.”
As she walked away, I eyed Caleb with a mixture of distaste and longing. Distaste for him, longing for his steak.
My belly grumbled loudly and I quickly drank the rest of my champagne. Caleb looked up from his plate, amusement in his eyes. Amusement that made him five million times more attractive than the haughty chill did. “Hungry?”
“Starving. Is it good?”
“Aye.” He grinned, one of wicked taunting, and took a huge bite.
Thankfully, Emily returned with my dinner before I could consider stealing Caleb’s plate out from under him.
“Oh my God. Thank you,” I said, practically ripping it out of her hands.
She laughed. “You’re welcome. Can I get you anything else?”
“Champagne, please.” I tapped my glass with my fork.
“Would you like a bottle instead?”
If I was going to get through dinner with an arrogant Scot, I was thinking yeah. “Oh, yes, please.” I threw her a quick smile before I started cutting through my filet. I squished pomme purée onto the fork with the steak and rubbed it in the sauce before shoving a huge mouthful through my parted lips.
I closed my eyes and groaned around the tasty beef. When I swallowed, my eyes popped open in preparation for the next bite, but instead of going directly to my plate they got stuck on Caleb’s.
He was staring at me with a forkful of food halfway to his mouth, frozen, his features taut with tension while those ice eyes had melted into blue pools of heat. My breath caught in my throat. “What?” I whispered.
His eyes narrowed. “Do you always eat like you’re having an orgasm, or is the show just for me?”
Blush blazed across my cheeks. “Excuse me?”
“On the plane with your coffee. Now here with the steak?”
My cheeks felt hot enough to cook on. Did I really do that? “I … I just like coffee. And steak.”
What happened floored me more than his insinuation that I got the same kind of pleasure out of food and coffee as I did from sex.
Caleb Scott grinned.
And it was not a wicked smile or an arrogant smirk. Just a wide, amused grin that caused a strange flutter in my chest. “You really are something else, babe.”
I had wanted to find something likable about him to feel better about my physical attraction, but the sudden compression on my chest, the feeling of breathlessness that I remembered from when I first realized I had a crush on Nick, stunned me for a moment.
It scared me.
One moment of normality didn’t eradicate the last day of him being a total prick to me. I frowned, busying myself with my food. “Don’t call me ‘babe.’ ”
There was no response and we continued to eat in silence. When we finished up, Emily returned to take our plates and offer us the dessert menu.
“Thank you,” I said as she gathered the plates in her hands.
I waited for Caleb to follow suit and was not surprised when Emily walked away without receiving a thank you from him.
“Why?” I took a huge gulp of champagne.
His eyebrows drew together. “Why what?”
“Why do you never say please or thank you?”
“I noticed years ago at work that my staff responded better tae me when I stopped saying please and thank you and just started expecting them to do a good job. It’s psychological.”
“One, that’s still shitty. But two, okay, that’s your staff and maybe that really does work for you in the office. But you’re not in the office. People are doing you a kindness and you don’t thank them.”
“They’re not doing me a kindness. They’re doing their bloody job.”
“True. So say you got a shitty waitress or crappy flight attendant … you’re right. You shouldn’t thank someone when they’re doing a shitty job. But none of these people today have been doing a shitty job. It’s just good manners to thank them.”
“Why does it bug you so much?”
“It’s common courtesy. I know when I spend weeks, sometimes months designing a space or a house, that it feels amazing when the client thanks me. And it feels horrible when they don’t say anything. You know they like it because they’ve called a national magazine to have them photograph it or you see them plastering it all over their social media showing it off. But they never said thank you or good job.