“I know,” I say. “But please just humor me.”
“Fine.” He nods at the napkin. “You’re going to take notes?”
“No, I’m drawing up a contract.”
“On a napkin? Wow, really official.”
“Hey.” I tap the napkin and say, “We will live and die by this napkin. Got it?”
“Sure,” he answers while taking another sip of his champagne.
As I write, I talk out loud. “This hereby napkin will formally and legally bind Ollie Owens and Silas Taters to the following agenda below.”
“Agenda . . . fancy.”
I lean in and whisper, “I took one class in law as a prerequisite.”
“It’s like you’ve practically passed the Bar.” Silas grins.
“Right?” I smile and go back to the napkin. “Silas Taters, hereby known from here on out as Puck, will deliver the following to Ollie Owens, hereby known from here on out as Lipstick.”
“Are the nicknames necessary?”
“It’s called having a sense of humor.” I poke him with my pen. “Try having one.”
“Be funny, and I will.”
My eyes widen, and he smirks while sipping his champagne.
“Oh sir, you better watch yourself.” He laughs some more while I focus back on the napkin. I clear my throat and continue, “Puck allows Lipstick full access to his home gym. Puck agrees to answer any question about hockey, even if it seems like a dumb question.”
“Can’t wait for that,” he says.
“Puck agrees to attend any event/outing/date requested by Lipstick as long as his hockey season schedule allows.”
“It’s going to become quite sparse when the season starts.”
“I understand that.” I hand him the pen. “Please initial next to each line.” He initials, then I take the pen from him and do the same. “Okay. Lipstick will deliver the following to Puck. Attend any and all events requested by Puck. Lipstick will dress as slutty—within reason—as Puck wants to make Sarah last name unknown, from here on out known as Witchbag”—Silas snorts—“jealous.” I glance up at him. “What else do you want?”
“Nothing,” he replies. “That’s fine.”
“It’s not fine,” I say. “There has to be something else I can do for you.”
“Everything is already done for me.”
“What about something like social media? Do you need help with that? Or a website? I know how to make one. Or I can help you with any lifestyle things like . . . how to, uh . . . fold a fitted sheet.”
“I’m good.”
“Ugh, come on, can’t you think of something? I mean, I’d offer sexual favors at this point.” He raises one brow in question. “But as we established, this is a business transaction, not a whorehouse.”
“Maybe you should write that on the napkin.”
I tap my nose with the pen and point at him. “You’re right.” I leave a space for him to put in another request, then underneath that, I write about not being a whorehouse. I hand him the pen. “Initial, please.” He initials and hands me back the pen. “Okay, so now that we have no sex written in stone, we need one more thing for you.”
“I want nothing.”
“Urgh, you’re infuriating,” I say as the room around us erupts in laughter. We both glance to the right where Roberts has walked into the room. “Shit, my boss. Make it quick.”
