He thinks for a minute. “I could use two grand for rent. Now that Eric fired me, I’ve got nothing.”
I was expecting a smart-ass comeback, not a serious salary negotiation. “Make it four.” That’s probably pocket change for me. I show him the final version.
GoldRush Employment Contract
Mia Wallace agrees to hire Max Charles to help with matchmaking and matchmaking support duties, including candle lighting and wine pouring. At the end of one month, Mia will pay Max $4,000 USD.
Safe word: Jacques-o-late
He says, “That is not my safe word.” Then he drops his head to his hands and starts shaking with laughter, the deliriouskind that hits you when you’re at the end of your rope.
“What’s so funny?”
“I just negotiated an employment contract with a woman who learned her last name approximately five minutes ago. Are you even legally capable of signing anything?”
“They let me out of the hospital. That means I’m ready for business, Max.” Then, more seriously, I say, “I have to be.”
Max knows it, too. He sits up, throws back the rest of his horchata, and says, “Time for my employee orientation then.”
“Meorientyou?” I didn’t know I had a business when I woke up this morning.
“Your phone,” he says. “Let’s check out GoldRush.”
Max locates the app on my phone, which turns out to be an administrative version of the program with searchable profiles and access to accounting. After he changes my password, he downloads it onto his phone too. He lets out a low whistle. “Damn, Mia. You’re a high roller.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your GoldRush girls. You pay them five grand per date. I should have asked for more money. What kind of qualifications do these chicks have?”
“I think I described them as sophisticated and elite,” I say, which is apparently an understatement.
“They must be pretty fucking special.”
“Not as special as you, Max.” I kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you.”
20Am I?
21Pretty sure I prefer sedation.
22Don’t tell Max I said that.
23#ClarkKent.
24Please note that I did not make a joke about mutual orgasm. You’re welcome, Max.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Before we manage to leave L’Empire Tacos, Instagram hits me up again, baiting me with another notification. My insides clench. What else am I about to discover about myself?
I see that I’ve been tagged in a post featuring a very, very, very attractive man in nothing but his underwear. His handle is@Jules_In_Briefs, which means he’s both clever and unbearably hot. From the look on his face, he knows it. He’s making bedroom eyes at the camera and doing something with his lips that makes me want more—pictures, that is.
Even though I know he’s playing me, I let out an involuntary, girly sigh. When was the last time I had sex?
Then I notice the thought bubble photoshopped into the image: my profile pic, the one with me in a milk bath with glitter on my face, is pasted into the bubble. He’s thinking of me!
I go positively giddy at the sight. How could I not? I’mall smiley and flushed. Am I ovulating or is it just flattery? Possibly both.
