Page 13 of The Wild Card
“Maybe it was donated.”
“It still would cost whoever donated it the ingredients and the time to make the meal,” I say, not sure why I’m arguing with him over this.
Maybe because it’sfun. And feels more like flirting than arguing. Easy, like we’ve done this before.
Again, the sense of familiarity tugs at me, a little niggle at the edge of my mind like the wisp of a dream just out of reach.
He runs a hand over his beard. “True. But the ingredients and time could also have been donated. A tax write-off.”
“Say that’s true and the ingredients were free and all human effort was freely donated,” I say. “At the most basic level, there’s still a cost. For example, if it’s steak, the cow is the one who paid the price.”
“Poor Bessie,” he says. “Laying down her life for a luncheon.”
“I’m serious,” I say, even though I’m fighting back a smile. I addfunnyto the list of characteristics in my new fake boyfriend’s “pro” column.
“I’m serious too. I don’t think it’s silly to consider the animals who died so we could eat prime rib or bacon. It’s respectful.”
I get the strong impression if he had a hat, he’d be holding it over his heart right now.
I roll my eyes. “I mean, I’m serious about what I’m going to owe you for doing this. You said yes really quickly. I thought I’d need to do way more convincing.”
He studies me for a long moment, and I try not to twitch or blink. His stare is intense. Outside of this situation, I wouldn’t mind him looking at me this way. All the time, in fact.
“Maybe I’m just a nice guy,” he says.
“Are you?”
He lifts a shoulder, lips curling into the kind of smile that hits me like a punch right to the diaphragm, stealing my breath. He looks like the naughty kind of nice.
“Guess you’ll find out. Now, are we going in or not?”
I narrow my eyes, studying him for a long moment. While I’m totally desperate for this job, desperate enough to lie in an interview, for heaven’s sake, this suddenly seems like a terrible idea. Worse even than it would be on paper.
Because there’s a thread of attraction tugging me toward him.
No time for attraction! Focus, Molly.You need this job. And to escape from your dad’s control.
Think about the end game.
But he must still see the hesitation on my face because my new fake boyfriend says, “Come on. You don’t want Bessie tohave died for nothing, do you? The least we can do is eat a free-to-us lunch in her memory.”
Laughing, I step away from the car and toward the glass door with a temporary sign taped up readingBrightmark Studios. “Let’s do this,” I say firmly. “For Bessie.”
“For Bessie,” he says solemnly.
But then his serious expression shifts to something a whole lot more flirty, and he opens the door for me. As I pass, he leans close, making my eyes flutter closed and my sense of self-preservation blare a noisy alarm.
“After you, sweetheart.” His breath caresses my cheek, and something inside me tumbles down, down, down as goose bumps rise on my skin.
“Wait!” I stop in the middle of the doorway, and it’s not because I like standing this close to him. Or because I wanted to know how he smells.
For the record—he smells a little like worn-in leather and classic Old Spice. Not the new kinds with the goofy names.
“We need the unicorn,” I tell him.
“We’re bringing the unicorn to lunch?” he asks.
“It would help sell the story.” I don’t say that it would give me something to do with my hands. Something other than grabbing onto him for dear life.
