“What kind of thing?”
He flicked a hand. “I’m presenting a check to the library’s literacy campaign.”
With a click of her tongue, she mirrored his dismissive wave and drolled in her best snooty accent, “Oh, one of those old things.”
But inside, she was a mess. She’d worked enough of these events to know Houston’s elite liked to play dress up—designer tuxes, couture gowns—while they ate too much, drank too much, and flaunted their fat wallets.
She refrained from pulling a Brooke and chewing her lip. Instead, her stomach churned. “I suppose it’s black tie?”
“Unfortunately.” He pulled out his own wallet, handmade leather, probably Gucci.
No, according to the pics on his social media, he favored Tom Ford. She eyed the jacket draped over the back of his seat. Yep.
She swallowed the acidic lump of disappointment in her throat, but her shoulders slumped a little before she could stop them. If he dressed like this for a casual lunch, what would his tux cost? Because men like him—billionaires like him—would own a tux or two or three.
Fuck, she was in over her head. She didn’t have that kind of wardrobe. This wasn’t going to work. Even if she found a designer knock off, it would cost more than she could afford, more than he was paying her. She’d be paying him to let her tag along.
“Here you go.” He pulled out a credit card—black with gold letters and the face of a Roman soldier.
Jo looked from the plastic status symbol to the empty space at the end of the table where she’d expected to see the server. Her gaze flew back to his. Surely, he didn’t mean for her to—
“Take it.” The card did a flip between his fingers. “Get whatever you need to play the part.”
“I’m not taking your money.”
That damn brow shot up to mock her.
“You know what I mean. It’s too much.”
“Not the way I see it.” When she still didn’t take it, he sighed. “If HR sent you up to work in accounting at Preston Enterprises, I wouldn’t expect you to bring your own pens, pencils, and computer. I’d supply them for you.”
“It’s not the same.”
“Yes, it is. I’m paying you to do a job. You need the appropriate tools to do it.”
It made sense. It also stood to reason that if she was going to be his arm candy, she needed to shine like spun sugar.
He captured her wrist and placed the credit card in her hand. “Take the damn card.”
Her fingers curled tightly around the sharp edges of the card. Not because she planned to use it, but because the sight and feel of his fingers clamped like manacles around her wrist sent a zing of heat up her arm. Her breasts tingled, nipples beaded, and her heart hammered.
“Fine.” Jo tugged her arm free. “But I have a few conditions before I agree to this deal.”
She had to put a stop to his assumption that he could touch her any time he wanted. She was not his. And the bullshit innuendo? Ugh. She wouldn’t make it through tomorrow night without killing him.
“I thought you’d already done that by naming a price.”
Jo ignored his jab and grasped the first rule that came to her from her mental list of dos and don’ts. “Rule number three.”
“Shouldn’t we start with rule number one?”
“I’ll get to that. But this one is just as important. No mingling of our personal lives. No showing up out of the blue. No calls, texts, or emails whatsoever unless it pertains to our deal. I’m not your maid, your gopher, or your girlfriend. I’m not even your friend. Got it?”
If she had a dollar for every time Chase had called her to bring him lunch because he was hungry and by himself at the feed store or his laptop because a paper was due for that online course he could never finish or worse, on those late nights when he needed a ride because he was drunk, she wouldn’t be in this predicament.
Avery’s shoulder rose and fell. “That’s the whole purpose of our agreement. No strings or expectations.”
“Agreed. And I need twenty-four hours’ notice for any date that’s not on the original list. I have a life, too.”
