by Bella Grant
I was too defeated to point out they had lowered the amount they had quoted at first. Everyone was trying to save an extra buck.
“Okay,” I affirmed.
“You’re expected to be here at seven,” Mrs. Kingsley added. “And we have zero tolerance for lateness or we’ll dock your pay by an hour. You will be given three fifteen-minute breaks, and for now, your shift will end at five.”
Ten hours of this drudgery. How would I even manage sitting at the cashier register, my mind not actively engaged as the machine calculated everything for me?
“Also, we prefer professional attire until we get you a uniform,” she continued. “The sizes we have are currently too big for you. Jeans with a dress shirt is appropriate for the time being, but we’d also prefer tailored pants if you have any.”
Jeans and shirt it would be. I wasn’t wearing my nice clothes to check people’s groceries for little pay. I bid them a hasty goodbye, resigned that I would have to work at the supermarket for a few weeks or until something else came up.
The drive home was depressing. Taylor didn’t have much to offer by way of attraction. It was a small town with barely the essentials. The young people headed for Austin or Dallas as soon as they graduated high school. To attend a movie, I’d have to drive all the way to Austin. This town was stifling with little opportunities, and getting stuck here was not a part of my plan.
When I arrived home, it was after four and Mom was in the kitchen preparing dinner. I barely called to her and went straight to my bedroom. I closed the door behind me, dropped my handbag on the floor, and sank onto the bed, wincing a little as much of its bounce had worn out over time.
The minute my head hit the pillow, I couldn’t stop the sobs. I wasn’t a bad person. Weren’t good things supposed to follow good people? I’d done nothing but fallen in love with an egotistical, selfish jerk. All I wanted was to find a job I could turn into a career. I had in mind to save enough money to complete my final year of college, but with a mediocre job, I wouldn’t be able to do that. I would be stuck in Taylor, cashiering at a supermarket for fourteen dollars an hour until I was old. Without a reference from my last workplace, very few businesses would hire me.
I must have cried myself to sleep because the next thing I knew, my mother was shaking me awake. “Huh? What?” I scrambled to sit up in bed, my heart beating fast at the thought of her falling ill again.
“The phone,” she responded, “you have a call.”
“I didn’t hear my cell ring,” I said with a groan and reached for my cell on the bedside table. “It’s not Scott, is it? Oh no!”
Scott hadn’t called, but I had three missed calls from a number that looked strangely familiar. Wasn’t that the number I was given in the email for the caregiver position to call if I had further questions? Or was this merely my wishful thinking?
“The phone,” Mom reminded me. “It sounded rather urgent. I tried to take a message, but he wanted to speak directly to you.”
“Who is it?” I asked, hastening to my feet, my stomach churning in anticipation.
“He said Jarrod Simpson, but I—”
I didn’t wait to hear the rest of her sentence. I sprinted from the room, stubbing my toe on the side of the door, which hurt like hell but didn’t deter me. I hopped to the nearest phone in the kitchen, the one my mother had answered. I sucked in a deep breath to calm my racing heartbeat, but it would take a couple minutes for that to happen and I didn’t have a couple minutes to find out why Mr. Simpson was calling me.
“Hello,” I said breathlessly.
“Is this Ms. Snow?” the deep baritone of his voice could not be forgotten. Jarrod Simpson was the caller.
“Yes, yes, this is her—I mean, this is she.”
A chuckle came from the other end of the line. “Relax, Ms. Snow, this isn’t an English test.”
“Umm, sorry, I was sleeping,” I mumbled, then bit my tongue. Why in the world would I tell him that? Like he would be interested in that irrelevant bit of information.
My mother walked into the kitchen and sat patiently, listening to my end of the conversation. I could see the curiosity in her eyes.
“Aha, so that’s why you didn’t answer my calls,” he remarked in a tone I couldn’t decide was mock irritation or not. “And I thought you were no longer interested in the job.”
“You mean…” I trailed off, not wanting to get ahead of myself.
“The job is yours if you want it, Ms. Snow,” he stated. “But first, I’d like to have another meeting so we can go through expectations and sign contracts.”
“Contracts?” I repeated.
“Yes, I did say this is a long-term position. I’m first and foremost a business man and would like everything on paper for the record.”
I itched to correct him that first and foremost, he was a father, but I didn’t think he would appreciate that, as much as it was the truth.
“Okay. That’s plausible.”
“I’m glad you agree,” he replied. “As for our meeting, can you make a business dinner this evening at seven? At Abacus. I’ll be on that side of town on business and won’t be finished until six-thirtyish. We can go over the contract during dinner. Does that work for you?”
I thought about the long drive to Dallas and grimaced. Almost three hours of driving. Making that trip at night wouldn’t be fun at all. I wasn’t too keen on the idea of dinner either, especially at Abacus, a fine dining restaurant that would warrant me dressing up. Why did he want to meet at a restaurant? Such an unconventional way to discuss our business.
“Uh, isn’t there any way we could meet tomorrow during the day?” I asked, my fingers crossed. “It’s almost a three-hour drive out to Dallas, and although I don’t mind so much making the trip there, getting home after would be a bit of a drag.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” he said thoughtfully. “You’re all the way in Taylor. Since I’d rather we discuss the contract this evening, your trip to the city will be covered as a business expense for me. I’ll book you a room at Palais Royale where you can spend the night. You’ll be able to make your way back home after a good night’s sleep.”
“Are you sure that’s not a lot of trouble?” I questioned hesitantly. I was worried about his eagerness to meet this evening and would have flat-out refused if we would be alone, but we’d be with other diners at the restaurant.
“I assure you, it’s no trouble at all,” he responded. “And rest assured, Ms. Snow, this is a business dinner.”
“Of course,” I agreed, then affirmed I’d be there at seven before hanging up.
“What was all that about?” Mom asked, her eyes twinkling suspiciously. “I couldn’t decide from your end of the call whether you were going out on a date or a business meeting.”
My face flamed. “It’s business, Mom, but you know these eccentric rich folks. He wants to discuss the job in depth over dinner. At Abacus.”
“Fancy restaurant,” Mom commented with approval. “Maybe he’s taking you there to test you.”
“Test me for what?” I queried.
“Maybe he wants to see how you conduct yourself,” she explained. “I mean, if you’re going to care for his daughters, he may have an interest in how you behave in certain situations since children pick up our habits.”
“I’m sure that’s not it,” I murmured, but I wasn’t certain at all. A lot of what she said made sense. If this did turn out to be a social test to see if I fit into his surroundings, I wasn’t worried about it. When Mom was healthy and there was enough money for extracurricular activities, she had sent me to cotillion classes.
“Well, if it is, those classes will sure come in handy,” she remarked as though reading my mind. “Anyway, the good thing is that the job is practically yours. Don’t let anything stop you from taking that job, Laurel. Including me. This will be a great opportunity for you.”
“Thanks, Mom.” I hugged her, fighting back tears. I would do this for her, too. If I indeed received the salary mention
ed in the job advert for this vacancy, I could help cover the expense of her surgery by the end of the year. I simply had to be frugal, and I would do it, too, because my mother meant everything to me and I wasn’t ready to lose her.
Half an hour later, while I pawed through my closet, trying to find something suitable for the occasion, I received an email from Mr. Simpson with my information for the hotel. It suddenly made sense to me to drive to the hotel early and get dressed there instead of driving for an hour in the dress I finally decided to wear to dinner.
Mom wished me all the best, and I jumped in my car with an overnight bag packed. I draped my dress over the back of the seat beside me to keep it from getting crushed. My pair of stilettos sat on the seat as well as my clutch.
I turned on the music in the car for company because I was buzzing with nervous excitement. I was glad I’d decided to stop at the hotel to get dressed because it was hot and I badly needed to freshen up by the time I reached Dallas.
Palais Royale was a lavish hotel designed like an Italian villa. At the front desk, I retrieved my room key and was shown to my suite by a bellboy. Located a few feet away from the pool, the suite was accessible by a private entrance. Inside was luxurious with Italian antiques and other artifacts with a Tuscan-inspired living and dining room.
I thanked the bellboy, tipping him generously before closing the door behind him. I would have liked to take in the features of the suite, but I had barely enough time to get dressed before I’d have to drive to the restaurant, which was fifteen minutes away.
I crossed the bedroom, which featured monogrammed linens and a walk-in closet, to the bathroom. The tub looked inviting, but I stepped into the shower. Maybe after dinner, when I returned to the hotel, I’d take a long, hot bath in the tub. It would be a pity to let a tub like that go to waste.
But for now, I would busy myself getting ready to ace this dinner and get that job.
Chapter 8
Jarrod
As my gaze roamed the restaurant, I passed over a pretty blonde bombshell, frowning as I thought that my companion for the evening was tardy. Awareness struck me, and I glanced back at the blonde woman being led my way. Preceding her was the same hostess who had tried flirting with me while she led me to my table in a discreet corner of the restaurant where we would have privacy to discuss what we needed to.
“Mr. Simpson, your dinner guest,” the hostess announced, and I stood, taking Ms. Snow’s outstretched hand. I didn’t remember her looking this young and lovely. My confidence waned as I had second thoughts. Why would she agree to my ridiculous proposal?
“Thank you,” I told the hostess, who sauntered off. “I’m very glad you could make it. Have a seat.”
“Thanks for choosing me for the job again,” she replied as I held her chair for her to be seated. I returned to my chair, trying not to let my frown show.
So she did know how to dress according to the occasion. She was elegant in the champagne-colored sleeveless dress with a scooped neckline. Her hair was in an intricate style which had a half up-do with curly tendrils brushing her slender neck. Yes, she would definitely fit into this role perfectly.
“I trust I didn’t put you out of your way much by asking you to meet tonight,” I told her. “I’m eager to take care of this matter. My daughters need someone urgently.”
“I understand,” she stated, though her face was a bit doubtful. “What are their names?”
“Annabelle and Isabelle,” I replied with a smile. “Let’s order. We can enjoy dinner then get to business.”
She nodded and we turned our attention to the menu. When the waiter arrived, she ordered a modest meal. Over appetizers, I talked vaguely about the kids, hinting that they’d had a difficult childhood without going into details. When our meals arrived, she knew everything I deemed necessary for her to know about the girls without revealing the true nature of this contract.
Dinner was a pleasant affair. She handled herself with ease and was able to keep up a light banter. I observed as much about her as I could. The way she chewed her food, the stem of the fork held with delicate fingers, and the way she sipped the wine which accompanied our food. She displayed the poise of someone unaffected by her surroundings and the circumstances, although she must have been curious about the contract she would be required to sign before leaving tonight.
The briefcase stood at my left leg, hidden from her view. The contracts and everything we needed to agree on were inside.
“There’s something I need you to clarify for me,” I told her when we lingered over dessert.
She peered up at me curiously, her jade eyes unsettling me. “About?”
“Your work at Foxx,” I stated, watching her reaction. She withdrew into herself, her back squaring. “Is his claim that you were fired for falsely leading him to believe you had acquired your degree true?”
She glanced down at the plate before her then raised her eyes and stared into mine unflinchingly. “Yes, I did allow them to think I had my degree, and I won’t try to foist an excuse on you about why I did it,” she responded regretfully. “Would I do it again? No. But I was not fired for that reason.” Her cheeks pinkened. “Mr. Foxx fired me because I refused to…to welcome his sexual advances. I handled my job exceptionally well, but he wanted my duties to extend beyond business and I wasn’t interested.”
I frowned, not because I didn’t believe her but rather that I doubted even more whether I would be successful in getting her to agree to this proposal. “You realize this is a very serious claim against Foxx?” I asked, mainly to buy some time while I tried to decide if I should do this.
“It’s not something I take very lightly either,” she remarked. “I don’t mix business and pleasure.”
Well, at least that was a relief. If she did agree to this, I didn’t have to worry about her catching feelings for me. “That’s the professional way to go,” I commented, then decided I had nothing to lose. “And that leads us to why we are here.”
I retrieved the briefcase from the floor and propped it up on my lap and against the table. Turning the complicated combination security lock, I took out the first agreement along with a gold-plated pen and placed them on the table. I retrieved a copy of the ‘caregiver’ contract and laid it on the table face down.
“Before I disclose the nature of the contract,” I said, schooling my features to reflect a serious mien. “You must sign this Non-Disclosure Agreement. Whatever we discuss after this must remain confidential, solely between us. Even if you don’t take the job. Is that understood?”
She hesitated a split second before she reached for the NDA on the table and the pen. I smiled with approval as she read through the document before signing it. She was not an ignorant woman. I’d have to appeal to her reason and common sense—and something told me she needed the money I would offer her.
“Sorry, but I have to read through documents before I sign,” she said with an apologetic look.
“No need to apologize.”
She signed the document, and I didn’t know how to begin. How did one initiate a conversation with a complete stranger on this very sensitive topic? I slid the ‘caregiver’ contract towards her. “Read with an open mind,” I cautioned her.
She bit her bottom lip in thought, glancing from me to the contract. “Umm. Something tells me this isn’t exactly what I came here for,” she announced nervously.
“It’s a solid business arrangement,” I told her to put her mind at rest.
After what seemed like an eternity, she upturned the contract the right way. There were three pages in total. My mind raced, trying to recall what was on each paper as she read the first then continued to the second. I relaxed when she got to the third page. Ten minutes or so must have passed, but she read carefully. To give her credit, she would be hard to beat at poker. Her expression didn’t change. When she finished reading the contract, she folded it neatly and pushed it towards me.
“Are you out of your mind?” she asked slow
ly.
My lips twitched at her response. “I am quite serious,” I answered her. “What’s your response?”
She pointed to the contract. “This is a million-dollar contract to be your wife.”
“I know.”
“I don’t understand,” she remarked. “And believe me, I want to understand what would prompt a man of your stature to want to buy himself a wife. A million dollars!”
I’d anticipated her asking me this question. “It seems like a fair trade for asking you to give ten years of your life to my children.”
“If you so desperately want a wife, why didn’t you hire the woman who was with us during the interview?” she demanded.
“Pearl is my executive assistant,” I responded, wondering why she would even mention Pearl. “Plus, I’m not looking for a wife in the traditional sense of the word. This is nothing but a business arrangement, Ms. Snow.”
“Okay, let me sum this up,” she retorted in disbelief. “You want me to marry you—a stranger—to provide your daughters with a mother until they go to college. You require no…er, no sexual gratification out of this. It’s simply a business agreement, and in the interim, you’ll pay me a million dollars?”
I shrugged. “More or less, yes.”
“What’s the more?” she wanted to know.
“Well, as my wife, I may require you, from time to time, to accompany me to events,” I answered. “While we’ll both know the true status of this marriage, to the world, we must be the loving husband and wife with two daughters we are committed to taking care of. That million dollars will be sealed for you. You’ll get a quarter of it as soon as you sign this contract. You’ll get the next quarter when you’ve completed five years, and the remaining five hundred thousand will be paid when you finish your tenure.”
“You truly are crazy!” she exclaimed, and she looked at me warily now.
“If wanting the best for my daughters is crazy, then I’ll accept that,” I responded, nonplussed at how she’d summed up the situation.
“Why not simply get a nanny to commit to a long-term stay?” she inquired. “I thought that was what this was about.”
