34: fan fic { numb3rs } : "the perfect man" [amita/omc]
title. the perfect man
author. nv
fandom. numb3rs
characters. amita ramanujan/omc
rating. pg-13
genre. angst, relationship/romance
warnings. adult themes
word count. 2929
summary. amita meets the perfect man.
challenge. quote prompt challenge (#2) at numb3rs_het
feedback. is the reason i do this.
disclaimer. the characters and canon contained herein are the property of cheryl heuton and nicolas falacci, as well as any associated writers, producers, networks, and parent companies. the following was written by neur0 vanity. no copyright infringement is intended, and no profit is being made.
I have long since come to believe that people never mean half of what they say, and that it is best to disregard their talk and judge only their actions.
- Dorothy Day, The Long Loneliness, 1952
As far as she knew, Amita was one of the few Trust Fund Kids that didn’t squander her money. She used it for tuition and books, and the job she chose to get at a research company paid for the rest of her expenses. She didn’t want to be one of the “privileged” girls who lived as debutantes and knew nothing of how to provide for themselves. Those people always seemed dreadfully vapid to her. Amita was a young woman with ambition who refused to allow anything or anyone other than herself to pave her way to success. It was difficult at times, certainly, but giving into temptation would mean dependence and obligation to her parents, and she refused that. They attempted to exert enough control over her - picking her school, arranging for a marriage, critiquing every choice she made of which they’d become aware. She didn’t hate them, but the love just wasn’t there.
There came a time, though, when she decided to dip into the trust fund for something other than her education. Taking the bus and riding her bike were becoming a chore, and with the added responsibility her employer was placing upon her, she needed to be able to be at work as soon as she was called. The same defined applied to school.
So she was going to buy a car.
She walked into the BMW dealership with trepidation. She had never made a purchase this big or a decision on a subject of which she had little knowledge. Amita had heard horror stories of women being taken advantage of by people in the car industry - dealerships and repair shops. While she was confident in other situations and assertive, she was aware that she would have no way of knowing if she was being lied to, and frankly, the idea of someone knowing more than she - genius Amita - made her feel extremely uncomfortable. In fact, it scared the hell out of her. In primary school, she’d been the smartest girl, and things weren’t much different in secondary school, but once she got to post-secondary - the collegiate world - she found herself battling with the most brilliant minds. Every day was a competition to be the best, to prove her worth to the horn-rims and tweed suits of intellectual and academic prestige. And now she was walking into a situation where she wasn’t the most knowledgeable, a situation where she could end up getting screwed.
She examined the cars in the showroom, assessing only the points she could understand: the sexy shape of the exterior, the luxury aspects of the leather seats and wood grain trim, the price. Her decision-making process was based on how pretty it looked and how much it cost. The build of the engine, the speed capacity, the wheels, the fuel economy - she didn’t know what was normal, what was exceptional, what was lacking. Aesthetics and cost were all she could see.
“That’s a great-looking car,” she heard a voice say, and she turned to see a gorgeous man standing behind her. He wore a black shirt with a white tie and pressed black pants. His shoes were shined to a high gloss. The corners of his eyes crinkled as he grinned at the car.
When he turned his deep brown eyes to her, the grin softened, eye crinkles faded, and his face held a mix of calm and servitude.
“What kind of BMW are you looking for?”
A shy smile crossed Amita’s face as her eyes fell to the floor. “I’m not exactly sure what I’m doing.”
“Well, let me ask you this: why are you getting a new vehicle?”
And thus began a series of questions and answers, the salesman inquiring about things of which she hadn’t thought. He made her feel comfortable. He didn’t come off as pushy at all. As they test-drove a few options - his voice telling her to “drive it like you stole it” - the cars spoke for him. Despite her privileged upbringing, she had never actually driven a luxury brand before, and she marveled at its handling - how she could accelerate quickly, stop suddenly, and navigate sharp turns with precision. She felt like a goddess as she sat high up in the leather seats of an SUV.
Back inside the dealership and at the man’s desk - his name was Nick Steinman - she realized then how much time had passed, and that it had felt much shorter. She realized she was having a good time.
Nick began to discuss payments with her and weighed the aspects of buying versus leasing, and discomfort and fear descended upon her again. She had the trust fund to pay for the vehicle, but what if her parents did not approve? What if they decided to cut her off for being “frivolous”? What if she had to pay for it on her own? How would it work into her budget? What if it had to be repossessed? What if there were maintenance issues she couldn’t afford?
“You look like you could use a drink,” Nick said with both concern and laughter in his voice.
Amita felt the heat in her cheeks. “Oh yeah.”
Nick’s eyebrows hitched slightly as his eyes brightened. “Want to go get one?”
She was sure the heat in her cheeks had turned to a full blush then. Was he just joking around or being serious? She had noted that he was a handsome man, but it was then that she took full inventory of just how good-looking he was, how very well put-together, how charming. And she wanted him.
Avoiding the appearance of overzealousness, she coolly and casually replied, “That sounds like a good idea.”
“We close in fifteen; I can take off now.”
She eyed the paperwork - her paperwork - strewn across his desk. “What about the car?”
His smile was so seductive in its easy nonchalance. “It can wait until tomorrow. Or whenever.”
$$$
They both drank vodka with lemonade at the bar-and-grill down the road, and he told her about his life before car sales. Nick had also been a Trust Fund Baby, one of those who - like Amita - didn’t have the ridiculously overabundant account and wanted to make his own success. He had worked as an IT specialist for a Fortune 100 company (yes, his dad had gotten him the job, though he wasn’t undeserving) and had a passion for numbers. Amita could definitely relate to that. Nick spoke of working on huge Unix servers, programming rebuilds from the ground up, and fabricating his own software for new company functionality. She asked him how he could have left it (not seeing how it was possible to abandon what she felt was such a wonderful opportunity), and he said that he had just grown tired of working for the same people with their strong-armed demands and little thanks.
“What they understand is that they don’t understand. That’s the extent of it. So they brush it off. They think of it as below them. I guess it’s how they deal with not being able to comprehend the magnitude of work. We’re laypeople to them, you know, and they feel like we’re their puppets. I just didn’t want that anymore. Plus, with working for BMW, I get to see new people every day. I’m working with people.”
“Yeah, but there’s quite a stigma out there about people in car sales.”
“I don’t like car salesmen, either. Used car salespeople are the worst. It’s just dirty. That’s the great thing about BMW - the cars really speak for themselves. I can tell you about all the features, but the car is going to let you know if it’s the right one for you. I don’t need to push.”
She found herself hypnotized by his words, how smoothly and confidently everything came out of his mouth. He talked about family, about the dream of having kids, and she was pleased to see that all his goals on the home front fell in line with her own. Could Nick be The One? Her heart raced and throbbed in her ears at the thought. She’d been in college for four years, and while her academic pursuits had almost always been her number one priority, she’d been keeping an eye out for a love interest. It was one part wanting to defy her parents’ insistence on her marrying the banker they’d chosen, but two parts needing to feel completed. To feel loved. To feel soothed. To feel valid.
As the alcohol hammered through her system, she fought the urge to invite him back to her apartment. She told herself that her intentions weren’t lewd; she just wanted to keep the conversation going, keep the connection alive. A crazy fear overwhelmed her that if she let him go home now, the door would be closed, and he would remain nothing more than the guy selling her a car. She didn’t want that. She wanted him.
And alcohol has a way of making every idea seem like the best idea in the world.
$$$
Amita told herself, alone in bed the next morning after Nick had left the night before, that she wasn’t that kind of girl. Normally, she didn’t do this - sleep with someone upon first meeting. But he was so wonderful, so perfect in all his little ways. Granted, she didn’t know much about him, but she had a sense he was a good man - a great man - and her intuition had rarely been proven incorrect. After all, she had a brilliant mind; why would she have reason to think she couldn’t trust her judgment?
It was okay, this untypical behavior. It was an exception, a one-time deal. Nick was the exception. And if he didn’t turn out to be Mr. Right (and why would that be the case?), then she could just walk away and learn from this. But there was no reason to think of that. Despite having just met him, she was sure he was the man she was destined to be with. She could trust her instincts. She’d always been able to do that.
$$$
Amita held off on getting the Beemer. A part of her was afraid that when she finally bought one, Nick would be out of her life. Nick had assured her that taking a customer out on a date was not his usual MO; it went without saying that the rest of his interactions with her - the daily phone calls that both excited and calmed her, the drop-ins, and the casual sex - were atypical. She felt special knowing this. Her sparkling personality and beauty were compelling enough to make a man break form and venture out of the professional persona in pursuit of her affections. And this wasn’t just any man; this was Nick - glorious, gorgeous Nick.
The longer she spent with him, the more wrapped up in him she became. Her head was filled with thoughts of marriage and children. Passing wedding boutiques, she would look in the storefront windows and imagine her colors, her ceremony and reception, her dress. She thought of names for their children and which sports they would play, which musical instruments they would pick up, which summer camps they would go to. She constantly fantasized about the day he would sweep her off her feet.
Weeks passed, and they continued with their arrangement. They would talk briefly on the phone during the day, and he would come over to her apartment at night. The sex was great, and then he’d dress, kiss her, and head back to his place with consideration for having to be up early for the next day.
It wasn’t until she met with a classmate one night that she became aware of what was really going on.
Meredith Wilson was the kind of girl Amita didn’t want to be. She was thin, dark-tanned, blonde, and queen of the debs, the Trust Fund Princesses. Her ride was a cherry red Jaguar. She wore all the designer clothes and always looked as though she’d just spent three hours doing her hair and makeup. They shared a calculus class as Meredith was a biochemistry major, and Amita often wondered how the girl did it. She wasn’t a ditz - in fact, she had bloodthirsty ambition - but there was something off about her - this extraordinary sense of entitlement that brought upon her an aura of never needing to do anything for herself because she could always get someone to do it for her.
Meredith invited Amita to a party at her parents’ mansion, and though Amita felt the invitation was extended with the intention of Meredith rubbing her wealth in Amita’s face, she went anyway. The folk there were so snobby and stuffy. So many of the young women looked as though they’d spent years in “finishing school,” their backs straight as rakes and heads held high. Their coifed hair shimmered in the light from the giant chandeliers.
After two glasses of champagne, Amita sunk even further into the walls. That was when she caught a glimpse of Meredith’s younger sister, Angelica. Amita had seen Angelica before - a freshman at their college. She seemed refined yet approachable, someone more like Amita, at least more comparable to Amita than Meredith. She watched as Angelica’s boyfriend clung to her every word, and when he reached for hors d’ouvres or champagne from the platters that passed by on the hands of tuxedoed waiters, he always checked with her to see what she would like, what he could get her, what she was in the mood for. They were young, but there was something so classic about them, something that spoke miles and miles of respect and compassion.
Angelica’s eyes finally settled on Amita, and she beckoned the senior over. Amita made her way quietly, telling herself to keep her back straight and head high like the other girls. Angelica smiled widely, clearly recognizing her from somewhere. In short order, Angelica told her that she knew of her work - both at the college and for the research company. Without shame, the freshman confessed that she wanted to follow in Amita’s footsteps with regard to computational theory. Amita smiled, feeling the way Nick made her feel in those brief moments they spent together.
Conversation turned to the subject of Angelica and her boyfriend Matthew, and Amita listened intently as Angelica told her that while she and Matthew had been together for only ten months, they were getting married. The connection between them had been instantaneous. Amita could relate to that; it had been the same with Nick. In their ten months together, they had been out to dozens of fabulous restaurants and vacationed together in Puerto Vallarta and the French Riviera, and they were looking at buying property. Amita couldn’t relate to that; Nick had shared nothing even close to that with her. “And,” Angelica whispered, leaning closer, “we’re going to Paris for our honeymoon. It will be such an amazing experience to give our virginity to each other in the Romance Capital of the World.” Amita definitely couldn’t relate to that.
Her blood boiled. Fancy restaurants? Exquisite vacations? Chastity and sexual boundaries? None of these things had been extended to her by Nick. With the exception of their first outing to the cheesy bar-and-grill down the road from the dealership, he hadn’t taken her anywhere. They hadn’t done anything together other than check in over the phone and fuck. He spoke like a gentleman, like a prince, like The One Made Just For Her, but his actions didn’t match up. A guy like Matthew - that was the perfect man, a man who wanted to share experiences with his love, look out for her interests, and respect her as a woman. Nick was just out for ass. Amita was a booty call.
How could she - genius Amita, steel instincts Amita - have been so blindsided? How could her intuition have been wrong? On the drive from the mansion and to her apartment, she fought back tears. Casual sex was not her style. She was a respectable woman, a woman with values and morals. She didn’t do things like that - sex on the first date, casual hook-ups, booty calls. She had made an exception for Nick because Nick had to be the man for her. Everything he had said supported that. But he was liar, and he’d made her a fool.
She began to beat herself up. She told herself she should have known better. She told herself she should have been smarter. She blamed herself.
But anger at herself soon turned to anger towards him. The BMWs might be able to sell themselves, but when it came to him, Nick was as bad as any used car salesman. He lied and swindled and cheated. He was a fraud.
Back at her apartment, she poured herself a glass of Merlot and vowed that this would never happen again. She was Amita Ramanujan - a gorgeous, intelligent, affluent young woman who could have her choice of any college, any employer, and certainly any man. From that point forward, if a man wanted her, he would have to work for it. Not jump through hoops of degradation, but prove to her that his intentions were pure and that it was her heart he was after. Never again would she sink to such lows. She valued herself more than that. She was better than that. And any man worth his words would act according to this one very clear fact.
The next morning, perhaps out of spite, she bought a Lexus.
end.
like it? watch whereismytalent.
author. nv
fandom. numb3rs
characters. amita ramanujan/omc
rating. pg-13
genre. angst, relationship/romance
warnings. adult themes
word count. 2929
summary. amita meets the perfect man.
challenge. quote prompt challenge (#2) at numb3rs_het
feedback. is the reason i do this.
disclaimer. the characters and canon contained herein are the property of cheryl heuton and nicolas falacci, as well as any associated writers, producers, networks, and parent companies. the following was written by neur0 vanity. no copyright infringement is intended, and no profit is being made.
I have long since come to believe that people never mean half of what they say, and that it is best to disregard their talk and judge only their actions.
- Dorothy Day, The Long Loneliness, 1952
As far as she knew, Amita was one of the few Trust Fund Kids that didn’t squander her money. She used it for tuition and books, and the job she chose to get at a research company paid for the rest of her expenses. She didn’t want to be one of the “privileged” girls who lived as debutantes and knew nothing of how to provide for themselves. Those people always seemed dreadfully vapid to her. Amita was a young woman with ambition who refused to allow anything or anyone other than herself to pave her way to success. It was difficult at times, certainly, but giving into temptation would mean dependence and obligation to her parents, and she refused that. They attempted to exert enough control over her - picking her school, arranging for a marriage, critiquing every choice she made of which they’d become aware. She didn’t hate them, but the love just wasn’t there.
There came a time, though, when she decided to dip into the trust fund for something other than her education. Taking the bus and riding her bike were becoming a chore, and with the added responsibility her employer was placing upon her, she needed to be able to be at work as soon as she was called. The same defined applied to school.
So she was going to buy a car.
She walked into the BMW dealership with trepidation. She had never made a purchase this big or a decision on a subject of which she had little knowledge. Amita had heard horror stories of women being taken advantage of by people in the car industry - dealerships and repair shops. While she was confident in other situations and assertive, she was aware that she would have no way of knowing if she was being lied to, and frankly, the idea of someone knowing more than she - genius Amita - made her feel extremely uncomfortable. In fact, it scared the hell out of her. In primary school, she’d been the smartest girl, and things weren’t much different in secondary school, but once she got to post-secondary - the collegiate world - she found herself battling with the most brilliant minds. Every day was a competition to be the best, to prove her worth to the horn-rims and tweed suits of intellectual and academic prestige. And now she was walking into a situation where she wasn’t the most knowledgeable, a situation where she could end up getting screwed.
She examined the cars in the showroom, assessing only the points she could understand: the sexy shape of the exterior, the luxury aspects of the leather seats and wood grain trim, the price. Her decision-making process was based on how pretty it looked and how much it cost. The build of the engine, the speed capacity, the wheels, the fuel economy - she didn’t know what was normal, what was exceptional, what was lacking. Aesthetics and cost were all she could see.
“That’s a great-looking car,” she heard a voice say, and she turned to see a gorgeous man standing behind her. He wore a black shirt with a white tie and pressed black pants. His shoes were shined to a high gloss. The corners of his eyes crinkled as he grinned at the car.
When he turned his deep brown eyes to her, the grin softened, eye crinkles faded, and his face held a mix of calm and servitude.
“What kind of BMW are you looking for?”
A shy smile crossed Amita’s face as her eyes fell to the floor. “I’m not exactly sure what I’m doing.”
“Well, let me ask you this: why are you getting a new vehicle?”
And thus began a series of questions and answers, the salesman inquiring about things of which she hadn’t thought. He made her feel comfortable. He didn’t come off as pushy at all. As they test-drove a few options - his voice telling her to “drive it like you stole it” - the cars spoke for him. Despite her privileged upbringing, she had never actually driven a luxury brand before, and she marveled at its handling - how she could accelerate quickly, stop suddenly, and navigate sharp turns with precision. She felt like a goddess as she sat high up in the leather seats of an SUV.
Back inside the dealership and at the man’s desk - his name was Nick Steinman - she realized then how much time had passed, and that it had felt much shorter. She realized she was having a good time.
Nick began to discuss payments with her and weighed the aspects of buying versus leasing, and discomfort and fear descended upon her again. She had the trust fund to pay for the vehicle, but what if her parents did not approve? What if they decided to cut her off for being “frivolous”? What if she had to pay for it on her own? How would it work into her budget? What if it had to be repossessed? What if there were maintenance issues she couldn’t afford?
“You look like you could use a drink,” Nick said with both concern and laughter in his voice.
Amita felt the heat in her cheeks. “Oh yeah.”
Nick’s eyebrows hitched slightly as his eyes brightened. “Want to go get one?”
She was sure the heat in her cheeks had turned to a full blush then. Was he just joking around or being serious? She had noted that he was a handsome man, but it was then that she took full inventory of just how good-looking he was, how very well put-together, how charming. And she wanted him.
Avoiding the appearance of overzealousness, she coolly and casually replied, “That sounds like a good idea.”
“We close in fifteen; I can take off now.”
She eyed the paperwork - her paperwork - strewn across his desk. “What about the car?”
His smile was so seductive in its easy nonchalance. “It can wait until tomorrow. Or whenever.”
$$$
They both drank vodka with lemonade at the bar-and-grill down the road, and he told her about his life before car sales. Nick had also been a Trust Fund Baby, one of those who - like Amita - didn’t have the ridiculously overabundant account and wanted to make his own success. He had worked as an IT specialist for a Fortune 100 company (yes, his dad had gotten him the job, though he wasn’t undeserving) and had a passion for numbers. Amita could definitely relate to that. Nick spoke of working on huge Unix servers, programming rebuilds from the ground up, and fabricating his own software for new company functionality. She asked him how he could have left it (not seeing how it was possible to abandon what she felt was such a wonderful opportunity), and he said that he had just grown tired of working for the same people with their strong-armed demands and little thanks.
“What they understand is that they don’t understand. That’s the extent of it. So they brush it off. They think of it as below them. I guess it’s how they deal with not being able to comprehend the magnitude of work. We’re laypeople to them, you know, and they feel like we’re their puppets. I just didn’t want that anymore. Plus, with working for BMW, I get to see new people every day. I’m working with people.”
“Yeah, but there’s quite a stigma out there about people in car sales.”
“I don’t like car salesmen, either. Used car salespeople are the worst. It’s just dirty. That’s the great thing about BMW - the cars really speak for themselves. I can tell you about all the features, but the car is going to let you know if it’s the right one for you. I don’t need to push.”
She found herself hypnotized by his words, how smoothly and confidently everything came out of his mouth. He talked about family, about the dream of having kids, and she was pleased to see that all his goals on the home front fell in line with her own. Could Nick be The One? Her heart raced and throbbed in her ears at the thought. She’d been in college for four years, and while her academic pursuits had almost always been her number one priority, she’d been keeping an eye out for a love interest. It was one part wanting to defy her parents’ insistence on her marrying the banker they’d chosen, but two parts needing to feel completed. To feel loved. To feel soothed. To feel valid.
As the alcohol hammered through her system, she fought the urge to invite him back to her apartment. She told herself that her intentions weren’t lewd; she just wanted to keep the conversation going, keep the connection alive. A crazy fear overwhelmed her that if she let him go home now, the door would be closed, and he would remain nothing more than the guy selling her a car. She didn’t want that. She wanted him.
And alcohol has a way of making every idea seem like the best idea in the world.
$$$
Amita told herself, alone in bed the next morning after Nick had left the night before, that she wasn’t that kind of girl. Normally, she didn’t do this - sleep with someone upon first meeting. But he was so wonderful, so perfect in all his little ways. Granted, she didn’t know much about him, but she had a sense he was a good man - a great man - and her intuition had rarely been proven incorrect. After all, she had a brilliant mind; why would she have reason to think she couldn’t trust her judgment?
It was okay, this untypical behavior. It was an exception, a one-time deal. Nick was the exception. And if he didn’t turn out to be Mr. Right (and why would that be the case?), then she could just walk away and learn from this. But there was no reason to think of that. Despite having just met him, she was sure he was the man she was destined to be with. She could trust her instincts. She’d always been able to do that.
$$$
Amita held off on getting the Beemer. A part of her was afraid that when she finally bought one, Nick would be out of her life. Nick had assured her that taking a customer out on a date was not his usual MO; it went without saying that the rest of his interactions with her - the daily phone calls that both excited and calmed her, the drop-ins, and the casual sex - were atypical. She felt special knowing this. Her sparkling personality and beauty were compelling enough to make a man break form and venture out of the professional persona in pursuit of her affections. And this wasn’t just any man; this was Nick - glorious, gorgeous Nick.
The longer she spent with him, the more wrapped up in him she became. Her head was filled with thoughts of marriage and children. Passing wedding boutiques, she would look in the storefront windows and imagine her colors, her ceremony and reception, her dress. She thought of names for their children and which sports they would play, which musical instruments they would pick up, which summer camps they would go to. She constantly fantasized about the day he would sweep her off her feet.
Weeks passed, and they continued with their arrangement. They would talk briefly on the phone during the day, and he would come over to her apartment at night. The sex was great, and then he’d dress, kiss her, and head back to his place with consideration for having to be up early for the next day.
It wasn’t until she met with a classmate one night that she became aware of what was really going on.
Meredith Wilson was the kind of girl Amita didn’t want to be. She was thin, dark-tanned, blonde, and queen of the debs, the Trust Fund Princesses. Her ride was a cherry red Jaguar. She wore all the designer clothes and always looked as though she’d just spent three hours doing her hair and makeup. They shared a calculus class as Meredith was a biochemistry major, and Amita often wondered how the girl did it. She wasn’t a ditz - in fact, she had bloodthirsty ambition - but there was something off about her - this extraordinary sense of entitlement that brought upon her an aura of never needing to do anything for herself because she could always get someone to do it for her.
Meredith invited Amita to a party at her parents’ mansion, and though Amita felt the invitation was extended with the intention of Meredith rubbing her wealth in Amita’s face, she went anyway. The folk there were so snobby and stuffy. So many of the young women looked as though they’d spent years in “finishing school,” their backs straight as rakes and heads held high. Their coifed hair shimmered in the light from the giant chandeliers.
After two glasses of champagne, Amita sunk even further into the walls. That was when she caught a glimpse of Meredith’s younger sister, Angelica. Amita had seen Angelica before - a freshman at their college. She seemed refined yet approachable, someone more like Amita, at least more comparable to Amita than Meredith. She watched as Angelica’s boyfriend clung to her every word, and when he reached for hors d’ouvres or champagne from the platters that passed by on the hands of tuxedoed waiters, he always checked with her to see what she would like, what he could get her, what she was in the mood for. They were young, but there was something so classic about them, something that spoke miles and miles of respect and compassion.
Angelica’s eyes finally settled on Amita, and she beckoned the senior over. Amita made her way quietly, telling herself to keep her back straight and head high like the other girls. Angelica smiled widely, clearly recognizing her from somewhere. In short order, Angelica told her that she knew of her work - both at the college and for the research company. Without shame, the freshman confessed that she wanted to follow in Amita’s footsteps with regard to computational theory. Amita smiled, feeling the way Nick made her feel in those brief moments they spent together.
Conversation turned to the subject of Angelica and her boyfriend Matthew, and Amita listened intently as Angelica told her that while she and Matthew had been together for only ten months, they were getting married. The connection between them had been instantaneous. Amita could relate to that; it had been the same with Nick. In their ten months together, they had been out to dozens of fabulous restaurants and vacationed together in Puerto Vallarta and the French Riviera, and they were looking at buying property. Amita couldn’t relate to that; Nick had shared nothing even close to that with her. “And,” Angelica whispered, leaning closer, “we’re going to Paris for our honeymoon. It will be such an amazing experience to give our virginity to each other in the Romance Capital of the World.” Amita definitely couldn’t relate to that.
Her blood boiled. Fancy restaurants? Exquisite vacations? Chastity and sexual boundaries? None of these things had been extended to her by Nick. With the exception of their first outing to the cheesy bar-and-grill down the road from the dealership, he hadn’t taken her anywhere. They hadn’t done anything together other than check in over the phone and fuck. He spoke like a gentleman, like a prince, like The One Made Just For Her, but his actions didn’t match up. A guy like Matthew - that was the perfect man, a man who wanted to share experiences with his love, look out for her interests, and respect her as a woman. Nick was just out for ass. Amita was a booty call.
How could she - genius Amita, steel instincts Amita - have been so blindsided? How could her intuition have been wrong? On the drive from the mansion and to her apartment, she fought back tears. Casual sex was not her style. She was a respectable woman, a woman with values and morals. She didn’t do things like that - sex on the first date, casual hook-ups, booty calls. She had made an exception for Nick because Nick had to be the man for her. Everything he had said supported that. But he was liar, and he’d made her a fool.
She began to beat herself up. She told herself she should have known better. She told herself she should have been smarter. She blamed herself.
But anger at herself soon turned to anger towards him. The BMWs might be able to sell themselves, but when it came to him, Nick was as bad as any used car salesman. He lied and swindled and cheated. He was a fraud.
Back at her apartment, she poured herself a glass of Merlot and vowed that this would never happen again. She was Amita Ramanujan - a gorgeous, intelligent, affluent young woman who could have her choice of any college, any employer, and certainly any man. From that point forward, if a man wanted her, he would have to work for it. Not jump through hoops of degradation, but prove to her that his intentions were pure and that it was her heart he was after. Never again would she sink to such lows. She valued herself more than that. She was better than that. And any man worth his words would act according to this one very clear fact.
The next morning, perhaps out of spite, she bought a Lexus.
end.
like it? watch whereismytalent.