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I swear the corner of his mouth twitches, though it’s gone before I can be sure of it. “You’re a twenty-eight-year-old single mom who is addicted to Diet Coke and was diagnosed with autism by TikTok.”
“My therapist agrees,” I add, making sure he has all the details. If he wants to hire me, I think it’s important he knows.
His chest expands on a deep breath that strains his T-shirt and turns me a little bit carnivorous. I haven’t eaten meat since fourth grade, but there is something about the contours of his muscles that makes my mouth water, my knees weak.
“You have a cool kid, and you can feed my bird while I’m on trips.”
“That’s it? You’re going to pay me to feed your bird?”
He shrugs his big shoulders. “Yeah, and do whatever else I need you to do.”
“Like what?”
“Like stuff a personal assistant does.”
“For example…?”
He digs his fingers into his hair. “Jesus fucking Christ, Millie.”
“I went to Catholic school too. So does Noah. My mom is very Catholic. You can’t say Jesus Christ around her.”
“Can I say it around you?”
“He and I are more loosely acquainted, and I don’t mind it.”
“Okay, but are you planning for me to be around your mom?”
“I don’t know.” I motion between us. “You’re the one talking in circles.”
He dips his chin, quietly saying, “You have a way of flipping a conversation on its head.” Then he slowly lifts his differently colored eyes to mine. “That’s a compliment.”
“Thank you.” I grin, even though I don’t understand. Talking with him might be confusing, but it’s fun. Especially that he seems to find me…entertaining?
“So how ’bout it?” he asks. “I’ll hire you for two hundred dollars a day.”
I nearly choke on my spit. “Two hundred dollars a day?”
He tilts his head, studying me. “Three hundred?”
I snort. “I wasn’t haggling with you. I was—am shocked. You can’t pay me three hundred dollars a day.”
“Why not?”
“That’s too much money to feed a bird.”
“You’ll have other things to do besides that, so how about two fifty?”
I throw my hands up in the air because I don’t even think he knows what he’s talking about. As if he’s making it up as he goes along. “Absolutely not. Lower.”
“Two…forty-five?”
My laughter is a mix of amusement and frustration. “Let’s say I take this job of yours, and let’s imagine it takes me half an hour to drive to your house—rounding up—and five minutes to feed your bird. That’s thirty-five minutes. You’d be paying me about seven dollars a minute.”
“Okay.” He dips his chin, acquiescing. “Then let’s round it up to ten dollars.”
“Stop.” I slice my hands through the air. “You have to stop offering money.”
“So we have a deal?” He sticks out his hand, waiting for me to shake it.
