Page 68 of Hate Me Like You Mean It

“What’s his name again? The guy. Rachel’s boss.”

It was the first thing Dom had said to me since we’d left his house. Granted, I’d prattled off my address and squeezed in a power nap during the initial ride, and he’d waited in the car while I showered and got ready, but still. It was a long time to go without uttering a single word.

I fiddled with the hem of my trench coat—an extra layer of protection against Dominic’s blatant abuse of the AC. “No idea. Can you drop me off a block or two away? I don’t want her to see us.”

“How do you not know his name?”

“She’s mentioned it a few times; it just hasn’t stuck. Starts with aT, I think.”

There was a brief pause as the car crept through another four feet of traffic. “Do you at least know what he looks like?”

“Nope.”

“Right.” His fingers drummed against the steering wheel, his lips forming a tight line. About a minute later, it was followed up with, “So, in short, you’re meeting up with some random man in some random bar, you have no idea what he looks like, you don’t have his name or any information about him other than he’syour friend’s boss, and you’re planning on drinking. Am I getting that right?”

“Nailed it,” I confirmed sarcastically as he waved a hand to the driver behind us before backing into an empty spot. It was a little too close to the bar for my liking, but whatever. Not like there’d been a ton of parking options. “I mean, other than the intentional misuse of the term ‘random,’ and leaving out the part where we won’t be alone. But, you know.”

“What if he’s a creep?”

“I doubt Rachel would be trying this hard to set me up with him if that were the case.”

“What if she doesn’t know?”

“Then I guess I’ll have to be the bearer of bad news. Can you unlock the door?” I was almost forty minutes late and couldn’t figure out how to do it myself.

“Look him up first.”

“What?”

“Look him up first, make sure he’s not on any of the lists.”

“What lists?”

His neck bent forward as he scanned the congested street. “There aren’t any schools or playgrounds within at least three kilometers of this place. Don’t you find that suspicious?”

“I find it more suspicious that this thing has a million buttons, yet none of them unlock the passenger-side door.” So far, I’d managed to crack open the window, tilt my headrest, make a portion of my seat vibrate, and turn on a fan for my legs.

“Where does Rachel work again? Her dad’s investment firm?”

My fingers stilled, my brain rewinding, trying to do the math and figure out whether he’d already left by the time the stuff with Rachel’s dad blew up. “Uh, no. She works for an accounting firm—deals a lot with nonprofits.”

It took him less than ten seconds to find it on his phone. A new one, I assumed, given its pristine condition. “Boltcher & Co.? Trevor Boltcher is the guy?”

“Yes, and I don’t know, probably. Is that the lock button?” I reached over him and pressed it. His trunk hissed open. He didn’t notice.

“He’s at least double your age.”

“Don’t be rude. He’s only thirty-something, according to Rachel.”

Dom didn’t look convinced. In fact, he was downrightsmug.

“Gimme that,” I said, reaching for his phone.

My cheeks heated when I looked down at the screen. They scorched when Dom palmed his mouth, failing to contain his laughter.

Doublemy age was a pretty generous understatement.

I whipped out my own phone.