“I mean, damn, you really say all the right things. Is there a possibility . . .” His expression brightens with misplaced hope.
My stomach sinks. He had to go and ruin it, didn’t he? God. I hate it when they get the wrong idea.
This happens plenty, which is why I stay as professional as possible—throw in as much business jargon as I can. I’m their perfect person for them for a few hours. I love doing it, helping in some small way that will hopefully support the relationships with those around them. But that’s not the real me, and I need to remind them I’m not actually their perfect person.
I’mnot saying the right things. The woman they’re paying to play their partner is.
I’d blame the male loneliness epidemic, but that’s probably the reason I have a semi-steady stream of income. I just wish men didn’t mistake a moment of kindness for genuine interest.
“I’m glad I could help, but I should get going—Thanksgiving is busy for me. I’ll send you the exit survey if you’d like to fill it out. Happy holidays, Porter,” I say, and give a curt nod before striding away.
Stopping around the corner, I pull out my phone and text my roommate, Iris, to let her know I’m alive.
Me
The nice Midwesterners didn’t serial kill me.
Iris
It’s the nice ones who look like they’ll make you pie who will get you.
Me
Next up: Tech Moguls.
Iris
You should actually get with this one. Marry rich and get it over with.
Me
Since I’m his cover story for being one of the city’s foremost horny bachelors, doubt that.
Iris
At least you get paid to go on shitty first dates. The rest of us do it for free
Me
And you get all the expensive leftovers. I have rolls and cheesecake for when you get to Fender after your shift
“Fuck!” someone shouts from the sidewalk near me as a taxi zips by. Its tires squelch as they send a spray of gray slush onto the curb.
Returning my phone to my bag, I look up.
A tall man is standing on the curb, pinching the bridge of his slender nose, now muttering to himself. His brown hair is plastered to one side of his head, and freckles paint his skin, kissing their way along his nose and up his cheeks, dispersing over his neck and forehead.
“New to the city?” I ask, taking pity on him. And hey, it’s the holiday season. It’s not like I’m a festive person, but holidays mean work. And work means I’m not constantly stressing over my bank account, so I’m in a pretty good mood.
“Four years,” he explains, giving a sheepish smile that causes his full bottom lip to pop into an accidental pout.
“Here, hop in with me.” I step out onto the street, waving my hand over my head. If I wasn’t working I’d take the subway, but I build taxis fare and other transportation costs into my contracts.
“Good luck getting one,” he mutters.
A cab with its light on comes our way and it pulls to a stop next to me.
I’m halfway in when I look back out the open door. “Are you coming or what?” I can’t help but sound a little smug.
