Anything personal about him is clearly off the table. Rearranging my plate and cutlery to make room for my mini-notepad, I lift my head to find Alex frowning. ‘Is there a problem with me taking notes?’
‘No. As long as you’re careful with them. Sensitive information leaking onto the market could be disastrous.’
‘I didn’t know we’d be discussing trade secrets,’ I joke, then fall silent when his face doesn’t change. ‘Don’t worry. I know how to protect data.’ I lick my lips. Now for the killer question. ‘You do trust me don’t you?’
‘I don’t know you. But perhaps I’m being overcautious. I keep forgetting the agency vetted you.’
‘Uh-huh.’ I clear my throat uncomfortably. They didn’t vet me well enough, otherwise they’d know where I used to work. And the way I left. ‘Well, if it helps, I’ll write in shorthand. It’s a bit of a dying art so not many people can read it nowadays. I learnt it—’
‘I don’t need your life history,’ he says shortly. ‘Let’s just get on with it. I’ll start with the running order of the AGM.’
I clench my fingers around the pen. God, what on earth is eating him?
While I work my way through a sumptuous main course and a satisfyingly chocolatey dessert, Alex goes through the schedule for the next few days, picking at his own meal. Unwinding incrementally as he talks, his voice softens, broad shoulders becoming less rigid. I take notes, but mostly listen as he describes key events and gives background on employees we’ll be seeing for one-to-one meetings.
‘Is this one of your hotels?’ I ask when he finally trails off.
‘No.’ He leans back in his chair. ‘I tried that once, but it didn’t work. I couldn’t focus on the AGM, kept being pulled into issues or noticing things that needed correcting. Here I’m part of a visiting organisation. I can let other people do the worrying.’
‘Cool.’ Oops, not the most professional language.
But he surprises me by grinning. ‘Yes, indeed. Cool.’
Is he laughing at himself, recalling my comment to Jess earlier about complete sentence construction? Why can’t he show his sense of humour more consistently? It would make it so much easier to read him, understand how I can earn his trust.
He leans forward, resting crossed arms on the table. ‘Aren’t you going to finish that?’ He points at the half-eaten chocolate cake in front of me.
‘I can’t,’ I answer regretfully, pushing it aside, my taste buds still delighting over the smooth richness of the icing.
‘What a waste,’ he shakes his head sorrowfully.
‘I know, sorry. I’ll pay for it if necessary.’ It’s an empty gesture. I’m broke.
‘I wasn’t serious.’
Thank God. I bet the meal would cost a fortune. ‘Oh.’ The light-hearted moment gives me an opportunity to ask what I’ve been wondering about. ‘So?’
‘So?’ he echoes.
‘We’ve done the business bit. Now will you tell me where you learnt Spanish?’
‘No point.’ Shrugging, he picks my dessert fork up and toys with it, his large hands on the tiny utensil looking like something out of Gulliver’s Travels. ‘It’s boring. And I told you enough about my background earlier.’
Blimey. Talk about guarded. I was hardly asking for his inside-leg measurements. Did he train at spy school or something? The thought is ironic, but then I realise I could totally imagine him as a secret agent, one of the hot guys from This Means War.
‘Fine, you can keep your secrets,’ I smile, ‘but you’ve got to give me something. Nothing too personal, I promise.’
He raises an eyebrow, but plays along. ‘You’ll just keep badgering until I do, won’t you?’ He shakes his head when I simply smile. ‘Fine. Go on then.’ he grumbles.
‘Okay,’ I tap my finger on my chin. ‘You’re the CEO of a worldwide organisation, so … what’s the funniest thing someone’s ever done to impress you? Or the weirdest interview you’ve ever conducted?’
‘You wouldn’t believe me.’
‘Try me.’
Relaxing back in the chair: ‘All right,’ he smiles, ‘but you asked, just remember that.’ Does he curve his lips slowly and sexily on purpose or does it just come naturally?
‘I will. I’ll remember if I wake tomorrow scarred by your stories that you’re responsible for the trauma.’
One corner of his mouth curls up further. ‘I can live with that if you can.’
‘Oh, I definitely can,’ I spark, before sitting back in shock. I’m flirting. Inappropriate and Not a Good Idea. Then another thought. Dread seeps through me. What if I did do the same with Tony? That despite saying I wasn’t interested I actually led him on? Hot nausea rolls in my stomach, so I take a deep breath to deal with it, tucking the notion away. The horrible feeling is soon forgotten as Alex shares some of his funniest and strangest experiences, ending with one particularly close to my heart, given my co-dependent relationship with sweet food.
‘Then there was the woman who wanted to work in our PR department and sent in handmade baked goods every day for two months.’ He takes a swig of water and I’m hypnotised by the movement of his strong throat muscles as he swallows, the dark stubble just under the skin.
‘No! Two whole months?’
‘Yes. Pies, cakes, fresh bread, cookies. The staff in business support were ecstatic.’
‘I bet they were, but how did sending all of those things in relate to her application?’
‘She wrapped everything in copies of her CV.’
‘You’re kidding!’
‘I’m not. I think she wanted to prove how successful a targeted PR campaign could be.’
‘Well it’s an interesting approach.’
‘And a tasty one.’ He pauses, straightens his face. ‘Unfortunately she hadn’t read the job details properly.’
‘Oh no, what?’ Propping my elbows on the table, I lean in.
He shifts closer and shares in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘The post was based halfway across the world and she wasn’t looking to relocate.’
‘No,’ I groan, laughing, ‘after all that?’
‘I know. But if she couldn’t even read the ad properly there wasn’t much hope was there?’
‘Everyone makes mistakes.’ My comment somehow changes the tone of our conversation because his eyes fix on the darkness outside the window, face paling.
‘That’s right. People do,’ he rattles out, like unrelenting hail striking glass.
‘I didn’t mean anything by it. I wasn’t talking about you. Are you all right?’ My hand creeps across the tablecloth, wanting to comfort.
Swinging his attention inside, he looks down at my fingers, blinks, tucks both hands away under the table and forces a smile. ‘I’m fine.’ Meaning he isn’t. ‘Apologies. Right, I’ve shared my war stories. Your turn now.’
The most recent battle can’t be mentioned yet. I need more time before mentioning Tony. ‘No war stories. Ask again.’
‘Tell me where you grew up then. What was it like?’
This