“It is very important that we are monogamous. Real or not, you can’t be caught anywhere ever with another man,” he says.
“That might be kind of tricky considering I work at a bar serving drinks to men who are thirsty for more than just alcohol,” I tell him, dabbing my mouth with my napkin.
“About that,” he says, setting his drink down and going for a chip. “You’re going to have to quit your job.”
Dominic doesn’t look at me as he drags a chip through the dip and pops it into his mouth. Meanwhile, I’m gawking at him.
“Quit my job?” I parrot. “At the Cockpit or the Ring?”
“Both,” he says as he chews. “This is good. I wasn’t sure about cheese with lobster, but I think they used smoked gouda.”
“Both? You can’t be serious.”
Dominic’s eyes flash up to me, and he grabs his water. “I’m very serious, Mila. Do you have any idea how much money I make? What my net worth is? Go ahead, look it up. I’ll wait,” he says with a nod. The waitress sets down our entrees: steak and mash for him and salmon and asparagus with wild rice for me. They say pregnancy can turn you off to seafood, but for some reason, it’s really hitting the spot right now.
At this moment though, I am a bit distracted. I pull out my phone and type it in:
Dominic Wolfe Net worth
I hit search and half a second later, my jaw hits the floor. Dominic takes that as his cue to talk again.
“Now you see my dilemma,” he says.
“I’m not seeing how anyone with that many zeros in their bank account, following other numbers of course, could possibly have any dilemmas whatsoever,” I tell him. I take a piece of my salmon and dunk into the lobster dip before popping it in my mouth.
“Thedilemma,” he says, enunciating the words, “is that a lot of those zeros include my inheritance. I don’t have access to those funds currently. Either way, any fiancée of mine cannot work at a bar.”
“You mean girlfriend. I haven’t officially said yes yet,” I kid, and he shoots me a look that could kill.
“You have to quit your job,” he says again.
“But I like my job,” I whine.
“Really? And what is it that you like about it? The ridiculous wig? Or having to take off clothes when you go to work instead of putting clothes on?” he asks.
“I’m a cocktail waitress. It’s the dress code,” I say, taking another bite.
“It’s degrading,” he says, and I chew more slowly.
“Well, I happen to be very good at it,” I say, looking down at my plate.
“You’d be good at anything you tried to do, Mila,” he says. I look at him, but his expression hasn’t changed.
“I have friends at the bar,” I say, but I think we both know I am running out of reasons.
“You can still see your friends. Invite them to the fights. You’ll be required to be at my matches to show your support. You’ve seen the girls sitting at the high-value tables. They smile; they dote–”
“They give the waitresses dirty looks,” I mutter.
“Don’t be like that,” he says. “I need a classy woman on my arm, and I want her to be just that. Classy. Kind. I would never marry a woman without manners.”
“And I would never treat waitstaff like they were less than me,” I say.
“One more thing,” he says.
“Is it a do or a don’t?” I ask.
“It’s a must,” he answers. “You have to move in with me.”
