“Why am I working for you?” I ask.

“I knew you needed a job. And there was an opening,” he shrugs.

“But why go through all that? Just to get me to work for you. Why do you even want me to work for you?” I ramble.

Once he makes eye contact with me, he doesn’t let me go. His eyes are disarming.

“Which one of those questions do you want me to answer first?” he finally says.

“I don’t know.” I give in, looking away.

“Listen,” he begins, softening up. He places his hand on my arm, sending shivers up my spine. “You didn’t believe that I had to go, and then I found out that you were out of work, looking for a job. I wasn’t sure that you would take the position if you knew the truth. So, I didn’t tell you.”

I shake my head. None of this makes any sense, and yet it does.

“But why did you tell me that your name was Tristan? Why did you lie about being a CEO, about everything?”

He looks away for a moment. “I didn’t lie about everything. I was a ski and rafting instructor five years ago before I started working for my father. I didn’t tell you everything about who I was because I had just met you. I didn’t think it would matter.”

I don’t say anything. I didn’t tell him everything either. But I hate that he has lied to me more than I hate myself for lying to him. I, at least, had good reasons for lying.

“And my name is Tristan. It’s my middle name. Gatsby Tristan Wild.”

“Gatsby?” I ask. “Really? Like The Great Gatsby?”

He nods.

“And you go by that?”

He nods again.

“Why would your parents want to name their son after one of the most disappointed and unhappy men in all of American literature?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “You’re going to have to ask them about that.”

The way he says it makes me feel really sorry for him.

“Listen, I’m not here to talk about my parents,” Gatsby says. “If you want to talk about them, then I’m going to go.”

This sounds familiar.

“Okay, fine. I’m sorry.”

We sit in silence for a while. I have a million more questions, but something keeps me from unleashing them on him. It’s nice just to sit here and enjoy each other’s company. I can’t remember the last time I sat like this with a guy and actually felt comfortable and at peace, all without saying a word.

He takes a deep breath. My eyes meet his, and we hold each other’s gaze for a long time. In his eyes, I can see kindness and sweetness with just a tinge of danger. I feel his gaze pulling me toward him, but I remain where I am. I still have questions, and I can’t let my feelings for this man overpower me.

“What?” I finally ask. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because you’re beautiful. It’s actually remarkable just how beautiful you are.” I blush. No one beside him has ever said that to me, at least not those words exactly.

“Oh, stop.” I wave my hand at him. Gatsby grabs my hand and puts it in between his two hands. I feel a jolt pass through me as if he has just conducted electricity through my body.

“Thank you,” I mumble under my breath and try to change the subject. I know I’m not particularly beautiful or that special looking, and compliments make me feel very uncomfortable. As if he is trying to sell me something.

“I still don’t understand why I’m working for you,” I say.

“Are you trying to change the subject?” he asks, leaning close to me. I feel his breath on my lips. Not able to help myself, I run my tongue over my bottom lip to catch some of him.

“Now, that is very sexy.” He leans even closer, brushing his lips along mine.

We’re kissing and not kissing at the same time. A warm sensation concentrates in between my legs and spreads throughout my body. My face is flushing, and even my fingertips, which are almost perpetually cold, get hot.

“You don’t believe me?” he whispers. Our lips are still brushing against each other, and I can’t remember my name, let alone what the hell we are talking about.

“One of these days, you’re going to see yourself the way I see you. If it’s the last thing I do.” Gatsby smiles and pulls away from me.

Slowly, my ability to think and act returns. I order another drink and ask him why I’m working for him again.

“I like you, Annabelle. And I don’t like many girls,” he says.

“Really?” I furrow my brows. Now that, for sure, is a lie. “Those pictures of you in all the magazines with various models say otherwise.”

Uttering those words hurts me more than they probably hurt him. Gatsby dates models! Many are Victoria Secret models. What the hell does he see in me? How dare he call me beautiful given who is on his regular roster? Does he think I am an idiot? I’m not as pretty as those girls, and those are his regulars.

“Don’t believe everything you read.” He looks away.

“Listen, I don’t have a problem with you dating. What I have a problem with is you pretending that you don’t date or don’t spend a lot of time with beautiful women.”

“Yes, I spend time with women. Some of them are beautiful. Most aren’t as beautiful as you,” he says.

I roll my eyes and start to gather my things. If there is one thing I can’t stand it’s people pretending that celebrities and movie stars and models aren’t drop dead gorgeous in comparison to regular people. 99% of them look better than 99% of us, including me. Maybe he is just trying to be nice and compliment me, but it’s ridiculous.

“Where are you going?” he asks touching my hand again. Again, little sparks of electricity course through me, but I don’t give in. I’m too angry.

“What? What did I say?”

There’s a genuine look of surprise and awe on his face like he actually has no idea, so I explain.

“I don’t think you see what I see in you,” he says. No, definitely not. I roll my eyes again.

“You know, that’s very annoying,” he says. “Rolling your eyes like that.”

“Well, you’re very annoying.” I can feel my blood boiling. “I don’t need you to give me shallow compliments. I appreciate it, but they’re really insincere. And I don’t need you lying to me about how much you love women. I thought we’d understood each other, but I guess not.”

He grabs my arm, and I pull away. I turn around and leave him with the check. Outside the bar, I stop to gather my breath and try to figure out what to do.

“Okay, you got me,” he says, walking out. “I do like women. It’s just that what the magazines report isn’t always true. I’m not dating those women.”

“So what are you doing?” I ask without taking a moment to think about it.

“We’re just hanging out,” he says.

Of course, how stupid can I be? He’s just sleeping with them.

“Okay, I get it.” I shrug. That’s fine by me. I had a good time. I’m the one who didn’t give him my number. What we had was fine, it was more than fine, but this is okay too.

“But you’re different.” Gatsby comes closer to me. He puts his arms around my shoulders, and I look up into his deep blue eyes and see a lost girl looking back at me. It’s me.

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