“An interview?” I snort as the waitress sets our drinks down along with two small plates that I assume are for something else on his “usual”menu when he comes here.
“We are here to discuss our contract,” he says, his voice neither too loud nor too soft. “Or have you forgotten? You’ve lost your edge a little, Miss Parker.”
My voice is two volume notches higher than I think he prefers but I honestly don’t give a fuck.
“Of course.” I offer the world’s sugariest smile while picking up my pine-tree-flavored soda water. “How could I forget? You only recently released me from solitary confinement.”
“You’ll get your phone back when I know I can trust you.”
At that, I bark out a laugh. “When you trust me? And when will that be?”
“When you’ve signed the contract,” Ransome answers, pulling out a piece of paper from his coat and presenting me with it and a pen.
I look down at it, then back up at him. A moment later, the waitress sets down a charcuterie board and another plate that looks like caviar.
I grab an olive and pop it in my mouth, chewing pensively as my eyes skim over the contract. Immediately, my eyes veer back up to the top line.
“Hold on. ‘Termination of employment as personal assistant to the CEO of Apex’? You’refiringme?!”
Ransome takes a cracker and spreads a tiny spoonful of caviar onto it. “I am repositioning you,” he corrects. Something aboutthe way he says the word makes my mind immediately wander somewhere else. Somewhere that makes me sit straighter and cross my legs under the table, a difficult task considering the dress I am wearing.
“So I am no longer your assistant?”
“You are still my assistant. But your job description is… slightly different. If you keep reading, you will see that. Also, take note of the change to your sal?—”
“Holy shit,” I let out when I see the number. “That’s double what you’re paying me now.”
Ransome’s lips screw into a look of disgust at my lack of tact, but I haven’t seen those many zeros in reference to my name, well, ever.
“Because I will be expecting more of you,” he says flatly. “A lot more.”
It’s quiet for a moment while we eat the appetizers on the table and I pound my way through the gin and tonic. I don’t know what’s making my head spin more, the alcohol or the words on the papers in front of me.
Miss Amara Parker agrees to contractually date Mr. Ransome Rozanov, monogamously.
Miss Amara Parker will not engage in any romantic, sexual, or intimate relations with anyone of the opposite sex, both platonic and otherwise.
“What if I have friends who are guys? Guys I met before you?” I ask, setting the paper back down.
Ransome casually reaches for a piece of toasted bread and drags it through the melted brie on the board. “You won’t,” he says without looking at me.
“But—”
“You. Won’t. Not if you sign the contract.”
I shake my head and keep reading because what else am I going to do?
After that, it’s a lot of the norm. Well, normal for an arranged dating contract anyways. Public affection is mandatory but at his discretion. Appearances as a couple, both in business and pleasure contexts, are mandatory, also at Ransome’s discretion. Monogamy is mentioned again, most likely to drill it into my brain, I’m sure.
I am about to set the paper down, sign it, toss it at him and order a drink I actually like, when I stop.
The last line has me stuck.
I read it several times to make sure I am understanding it right. But in the end, my brow stitches together.
“I see you’ve come to the incentives disclosure,” Ransome remarks as he runs an orange rind around the inside of his glass.
“‘Relationship shall remain professional behind closed doors aside from… private activities’?” I ask. My eyes flash up to him. “I hope you mean housekeeping.”
