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“All the more reason to leave it.”
“Come work for me,” he says again, and I remember what this conversation is supposed to be about. “Let me find you a spot in marketing or PR.” I’m surprised by how hurt I feel by his offer. I think it must show on my face. “Whatever you want. Whatever you think might suit your skill set best.”
“Crumbs from the table? I think I’d rather spend my days wiping them down.”
“You can’t be serious, Clara.”
Maybe. Or maybe I’m just petty. “I can’t work out if you want to give me a job to help me, help you, or hurt my dad.”
“First two. Wrong order. If the third is a by-product, I won’t be mad.”
“And what happens when he says he’s not investing?”
“He’s unlikely to announce that to the world. But it doesn’t matter if he does. It’s not what anyone says they are or aren’t doing. What’s important is how things look to the market.”
“Giving me a job isn’t going to mean anything to the market.”
“It’ll mean something when we’re seen together.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Seen together romantically. I want to give the impression that we’re dating.”
“You want to date me?” My eyes almost fall out of my head as a quiver of something I don’t dare identify shimmers though my insides. “And pay me for it?”
“I want to date you for the optics. The money you’ll earn from a legitimate job within Table.”
But I’m already shaking my head even as my mind swims with the benefits. A salary and health care. I wouldn’t need to live like this anymore. No more waiting tables and scraping to get by.
“It’s a win-win, Clara.”
“Crazy, more like.” But tempting.
“No, it’s business.”
“No, no, it’s not.” My denial is stronger this time, maybe because my fingers are tingling so badly with the desire to grab this lifeline.
“We’re talking a few dinners and some strategically posed exits.”
I can already see it. His arm around me. His palm pressed to my lower back. His lips at my temple. Words whispered in my ear. The images are scary. Seductive. And wildly tempting. Which is why, “You can’t hire me to be your girlfriend.”
“Not girlfriend. Narrative.”
“You think that sounds any better?” I bluster, suddenly stung. I mean, why the hell would he want to date me again? He can’t even stand to be around me.
But if he can, how about . . .
I inhale a tiny breath, almost scared by the thought.
“Just think, no more living like this.”
I nearly laugh, because this place might seem like the height of luxury in a few weeks, given how rents have skyrocketed.
“No more shitty jobs,” he continues. “No more just getting by. You could start again. Make contacts. Even build a career, if you like.”
“I don’t need your charity.” And I can’t stare at his face across a dinner table or let myself get used to his arm around my waist.
But the alternative calls for more pretense and closer confines, my mind whispers. But the terms would be mine, and the outcome would be infinitely safer.
