Page 49 of Mr. Hotshot CEO

“Yeah, you definitely need to get laid.”

“I want to,” I mutter, “but she’s not interested.”

Well, she’s clearly attracted to me, and she makes pretty damn erotic noises when she kisses me, plus I can’t imagine she’d have anything against having sex just for fun. But she says she can’t, and she won’t tell me why.

Vince finds this hilarious. “You need serious help with women.”

“May I remind you that I’m the one who’s had several relationships in the past ten years, whereas you haven’t had a girlfriend since Deanna?”

“I...” He shakes his head.

My brother, at a loss for words. Huh.

As I’m pondering this unusual situation, I hear some banging noises in my condo, so I head downstairs with my book and half-finished beer.

Mom and Po Po are here.

“Julian!” Mom says. “There you are.”

I pull out the containers of cookies and lemon squares. I arrange them on a platter and start the kettle for tea.

Vince is back to his usual smirking self. “Wow. Courtney wasn’t lying when she said you’d been baking.”

“You made these?” Mom asks. “Not Elena?”

“I did.”

Po Po grabs a lemon square and takes a bite. “Pretty good. Your girlfriend helped you?”

“Just with the chocolate chip cookies. I made the rest myself.” Then I register her words. “Courtney isn’t my girlfriend.”

“She’s living with you, yes? Sounds like a girlfriend to me.”

I don’t know why I’m arguing when there’s no chance of me convincing my family that I do not have a girlfriend, not after Vince put that idea in their heads.

The water boils. I make a pot of jasmine tea and bring it to the dining room table, along with the platter of cookies and squares. I return to the kitchen for my bottle of beer.

“This is your fourth day off work,” Mom says, “and you’ve already gotten a girlfriend and learned to bake?”

“He’s efficient even in his time off,” Vince says.

Po Po taps my bottle of beer. “Do not approve of this.” She clucks her tongue. “If you’re not careful, you will turn into Vince.”

“Hey!” he says. “What’s wrong with me?”

I’m about to answer, but then my grandmother lifts the beer to her lips. We all watch, wide-eyed, as she chugs the rest of the bottle.

“There,” she says proudly. “Now you can’t drink it.”

“There are twenty-three more bottles in the fridge,” I say.

“You bought a two-four of Labatt 50?” Vince laughs. “God, you are such an old man. And Po Po, that was impressive. But why is it okay for you to drink beer in the middle of the afternoon, and not for us?”

“Am eighty-nine.” She points to herself. “Could drop dead any minute. Doesn’t matter what I do anymore.”

“Ma,” my mother says, “will you please stop talking about dropping dead?”

“Why? It’s true. But it would be nice to have great-grandchildren first.”