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An uncomfortable silence hung over us for far too long as I worked up the nerve to continue. Every part of me just wantedto get out of here for reasons completely different from the ones that had flared when I came in, but what he’d said in his text was true. Dad expected me to try. And I wanted this business to fucking work. “Age preference?”
“Thirty to fifty,” he said.
But I’m twenty-five.“Do you want her to be any particular height?”
“Under six foot.”
“Size?”
He shrugged. “No real preference.”
“Working or non-working?”
He went quiet for a moment as he looked at his watch, his brows knitting together. “Working, but not as many hours as me. Ideally, she’d be independent and would have her own things going on, but with more time for Lucas than I have.”
“How many hours do you work? Just so I can ballpark this.”
“Forty-five to seventy a week. It varies.” He shrugged, and as I jotted down his answer, a loud crack came from him. I glanced up, and he was pushing at his neck at an odd angle before turning and doing it in the other direction.Jesus.“Maybe someone that can work from home if she’s full-time would fit nicely?”
“Okay.” I clicked the top of my pen against my lip as I tried to think of anything else that could be useful for me to know. I didn’t want to have to contact him again after this unless it was to set up a date. “Is there anything else specifically that you want me to know?”
He sucked his teeth as his gaze traveled somewhere behind me, lost either in thought or in the plain gray paint job of the wall. “I have to take frequent trips for the company. So I guess someone who doesn’t mind being left alone with Lucas would be good,” he said. “Other than that, I guess it would just be…someone who loves children, and someone who is okay with their partner being closed off.”
“You want me to ask the women I’ll be speaking to if they’ll be happy being unloved?” I scoffed. “That’ll go over well.”
“I’m sure there’s someone out there who is more than happy to have their life paid for in exchange for helping me raise my son without the guarantee of more.”
I shook my head. “You do realize that this service is for people who don’tneedto have their life paid for, correct? My clientele will be mostly people ofyourstatus.”
His gaze met mine again. “You’ll find someone.”
I snorted. “Either you’ve got a warped sense of perspective, or my father significantly oversold my abilities.”
“Open up the pool a little more if you need to,” he said. His hands dug into his slacks on either side of his knees, and with a quick grunt, he pushed himself up until he was standing. It screamed of a power move, with him towering far above me and looking down at my discomfort. But from the way his lips tightened, from the way he looked away from me as I clocked it, it felt more like an assertion of his reluctance to keep going. “There’s nothing else I need you to know.”
“Wait,” I insisted, flipping the page to the last little chunk of questions I’d forgotten about. He paused, and I skimmed them, picking out which would actually help me with this, since he wanted to end the meeting. “Are there any specific traits you’d like me to consider?”
He sighed. “Someone good with kids, but I figured that was clear.”
“Any specific professions you prefer?”
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “No Broadway cast members.”
“What? Why?”
“Next question.”
“You can’t justnotexplain that,” I said, jotting it down regardless and underlining it for emphasis.
“I absolutely can, and I will.” He crossed the floor, stepping from carpet to marble tile, as he walked back toward his desk. “Just skip the theater industry.”
The sun nearly blinded me as I turned my head to watch him collapse into his desk chair. I followed his lead and stood, putting myself back in the shade once again. “If you could just explain, I can figure out what the root of that issue is and apply it to other candidates for you.”
“Ava. Stop.”
I held his gaze across the room. Every part of me wanted to dive into that deeper, sink my fingernails in, and rip it out of him. It was such a random request, but I didn’t know how far that went—were musicians in general off the table? What about playwrights, technicians, film actors, set designers? “I can’t do this if you don’t work with me.”
“You can.” The intensity of his voice as he said those two stupid words across the empty space hit me in a way I wasn’t expecting. It almost felt as though I were a child being scolded for something I hadn’t done, like I was being spoken down to, like he wanted me to be aware that he could make or break my career with this. It feltsour.
