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I’m great at being direct.
It’s why so few kids liked me growing up.
It’s a real…a real super power.
Yeah.
I dare say I might need my trashcan again before this is done.
All the same, I tuck my LeoPad under the arm holding Mr. Marsh’s lunch and knock.
“Come on in,” he calls, so I push through into the blinding space.
With the full wall of glass windows overlooking the city dead ahead, sunlight fills every crevice inside, bouncing off the ivory whites and ash grays. It’s crisp. Clean. Clinical. I’d appreciate the décor if it weren’t for the waterfall feature ending in an entire koi pond on the left across from Mr. Marsh’s desk. Having five live fish the size of my head swimming in your office flooring is where I, quite honestly, draw the line on whimsical.
It takes everything in me to remain calm, cool, and collected as I deliver Mr. Marsh’s meal while second-guessing my opening line for this conversation. I’ve been editing it all morning. It still seems to suck.
Before I get the nerve to broach the subject, he says, “You don’t have to force a smile around me. I wanted to tell you that when we were reviewing today’s schedule this morning, but it was a time crunch with that early meeting.”
My entire script burns to a crisp, and I’m stuck smiling and staring as my brain struggles to reload.
The urge to put my fist through his face then eat his chicken parm is so high right now.
I’m a saint.
I’m actually a saint.
Every day, I stop murders with my impeccable self control.
As eloquent as a slug, I say, “That’s not…really how it works. You get business mode, and you don’t want me to turn off business mode during business hours because I will one hundred percent cuss out your clients if they get on my nerves.”
His blue eyes sparkle as he tilts his head. All I can see is a giant puppy when he says, “Do they do that often? Get on your nerves?”
“Constantly. You know how the human body has trillions and trillions of nerves?”
“Yes?”
“I keep mine on the floor in a puddle around my ankles. If anyone gets within three feet of me, I guarantee they’re on a couple billion of my nerves. The skill it takes to pretend they aren’t is actually quite commendable. I deserve an Oscar.”
An amused edge softens the bliss in his usual smile. “Fascinating.”
I swallow hard as I take a breath. “Mr. Marsh. I’ve given your proposition some thought.”
“Did you read my answers to the form questions?”
I…skimmed some, then I got overwhelmed and called my girls to see if they wanted to play Stardew Valley. But I shan’t be saying that, I think. “I started; however, the task did not fit into my plans for the evening.” I’m not getting paid to learn your favorite color, my guy. I do not have the capacity to care. “My motivation for what I’m about to say is purely monetary. I believe fully that you’ll have had enough of me after one date. If you’re willing to pay for that, I’ll consent to it.”
“You’ll consent to one date? Or you’ll consent to the full term?” He twists his chair. “I’m only interested in a full-term chance.”
“I believe you’ll be done after one date. I’m not consenting to a full term without more details concerning expectations. How many dates do you anticipate during the period? Must I emotionally prepare for casual texts? Phone calls? How much of my free time will you expect me to give up, assuming you stay interested through November? I want a contract.”
“Funny.” He stops twisting to pull out a formal document. Placing it perfectly at the edge of the desk in front of me, he says, “Does this outline everything of consequence?”
With a mere glance, no. Absolutely not. “What does my agreeing to treat this like a real dating relationship mean?” It’s the vaguest garbage I have ever seen. “I want hours. Events. The number of times I’m required to text back in a given day.”
“Marcella.”
Brow furrowed, I look up, and I fear my calm, cool, collected smile has gone disgustedly lopsided.
