Page 30 of Failure to Match

No. I got all that from eight months of slaving away at my job, banging my head against the wall trying to find a partner for a man who was doing his absolute damnedest to make it impossible for me.

“Am I wrong?” I asked.

The one corner of his mouth twitched like it wanted to be amused. “No. You’re not wrong.”

Knew it. Honestly, the man couldn’t be more of a cliché if he tried.

“Great. Any decent sushi places around here you’d recommend?” I was starving.

My inquiry went ignored. “Why are you here then? If you’re aware I think it’s all bullshit, why waste your time?”

“Poké would be good too. Whichever is closest.”

“Is it for the money?” he prodded. “The experience? A gold star on your résumé?”

“To start. Why?”

He wanted to make a deal. He’d pay me to fabricate my data, and I’d still be able to put the gold star on my résumé. In his head, it was a win-win.

“If you’re open to it, I’d like to come up with an alternate arrangement,” he said, searching my features for visual cues as to how his proposition was being received. “An arrangement that works better for both of us.”

“No.”

A pause. He clearly wasn’t used to hearing that word.

“You don’t even know what my offer is yet.”

Oh, so he wanted to do this the long way then. I glanced at my watch. I’d allow him… six more minutes.

“Okay. What’s your offer?”

“Two hundred thousand,” he deadpanned. “But all of this stops. No shadowing, coaching, tests, or interviews. Though, as far as Minerva is concerned, we’ve done all of it and more.”

“Oh,” I said, “then still no.”

Hereallydidn’t like hearing that word. “Five hundred.”

“No.”

“One million.”

“No.”

His elbows were planted on his desk now, eyes piercing mine from across the room. “Miss Paquin, I’m offering you a milliondollars to spend a monthnotworking,” he explained slowly. In case my teeny tiny brain wasn’t capable of comprehending the complexity of his proposed arrangement, I guess.

“No, Mr. Sinclair,” I said, voice mocking. “You’re offering me a million dollars to sacrifice my integrity and put my career at even more risk.”

“Oh please.” He leaned back again, adjusting his tie. “Tell me, where was your integrity when you put on a wig and lied to me about who you were?”

My skin flamed with sudden irritation. “I have no intention of striking any sort of deal with you or double-crossing my employer. And unless you want this all included in my next report to your aunt, I suggest you drop it.”

I turned back to my laptop.

Integrity: nonexistent.

Entitlement: all but invented and trademarked by client?—

“Twenty.”

---