“You could call me a consultant.”
“You’d rather be a consultant than an intern?”
“An optimization consultant maybe.”
“Your job will be the same no matter what I call it.”
“Words matter, Mia.”
“How about vice president then?”
He nods as if that’s acceptable.
“Vice president…of romance,” I add, just to see the look on his face. He’s so cute when he looks stern about dumb stuff.
“Mia,” he admonishes me, his voice suddenly sounding like a sitcom dad’s. “Vice president period.”
“Are you sure? You could be vice president of anything. You could be the vice president of sex, even. As long as it relates to romance.”
Max ignores me and looks serious. “What about a contract that covers our mutual obligations?”24
Mutual obligations. I know I’ve hired the right man.
The internet tells us how to draft a contract. I think it’s a waste of time but if this is what makes him feel safe…
The top Google result tells me to title my document. I type:
GoldRush Employment Contract
Next step: identify the parties. Luckily I found out my last name a few minutes ago so I can make this thing legal. I type: Mia Wallace agrees to hire Max Charles…
Next: explain the job to be performed. “Ummmm…” I read the words aloud as I type them. “Max will help Mia understand her company and how to run it. This might include matchmaking, dating, accounting—” I stop and look up. “I don’t know, what do you think?”
Max looks like he’s rethinking his whole life, so I write:
Mia Wallace agrees to hire Max Charles to help with matchmaking and matchmaking support duties.
Sounding very disgruntled, he says, “That makes it sound like I’ll be lighting candles and pouring wine.”
“I’ll add that in,” I say, just to annoy him. “Let’s move on to length of contract.”
“Dear God. I don’t know if I’m ready to commit to any length of time.”
I make a I hate to break this to you face and say, “Maybe that was your problem with Fay.”
“Oh my God. Just write a month. I’m sure it’ll take at least that long to straighten out anything at the lab.”
“We’re almost done. Compensation…what do you need?”
He thinks for a minute. “I could use two grand for rent. Now that Eric fired me, I’ve got nothing.”
I was expecting a smart-ass comeback, not a serious salary negotiation. “Make it four.” That’s probably pocket change for me. I show him the final version.
GoldRush Employment Contract
Mia Wallace agrees to hire Max Charles to help with matchmaking and matchmaking support duties, including candle lighting and wine pouring. At the end of one month, Mia will pay Max $4,000 USD.
Safe word: Jacques-o-late
He says, “That is not my safe word.” Then he drops his head to his hands and starts shaking with laughter, the delirious kind that hits you when you’re at the end of your rope.
“What’s so funny?”
“I just negotiated an employment contract with a woman who learned her last name approximately five minutes ago. Are you even legally capable of signing anything?”
“They let me out of the hospital. That means I’m ready for business, Max.” Then, more seriously, I say, “I have to be.”
Max knows it, too. He sits up, throws back the rest of his horchata, and says, “Time for my employee orientation then.”
“Me orient you?” I didn’t know I had a business when I woke up this morning.
“Your phone,” he says. “Let’s check out GoldRush.”
Max locates the app on my phone, which turns out to be an administrative version of the program with searchable profiles and access to accounting. After he changes my password, he downloads it onto his phone too. He lets out a low whistle. “Damn, Mia. You’re a high roller.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your GoldRush girls. You pay them five grand per date. I should have asked for more money. What kind of qualifications do these chicks have?”
“I think I described them as sophisticated and elite,” I say, which is apparently an understatement.
“They must be pretty fucking special.”
“Not as special as you, Max.” I kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you.”
20 Am I?
21 Pretty sure I prefer sedation.
22 Don’t tell Max I said that.
23 #ClarkKent.
24 Please note that I did not make a joke about mutual orgasm. You’re welcome, Max.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Before we manage to leave L’Empire Tacos, Instagram hits me up again, baiting me with another notification. My insides clench. What else am I about to discover about myself?
I see that I’ve been tagged in a post featuring a very, very, very attractive man in nothing but his underwear. His handle is @Jules_In_Briefs, which means he’s both clever and unbearably hot. From the look on his face, he knows it. He’s making bedroom eyes at the camera and doing something with his lips that makes me want more—pictures, that is.
Even though I know he’s playing me, I let out an involuntary, girly sigh. When was the last time I had sex?
Then I notice the thought bubble photoshopped into the image: my profile pic, the one with me in a milk bath with glitter on my face, is pasted into the bubble. He’s thinking of me!
I go positively giddy at the sight. How could I not? I’m all smiley and flushed. Am I ovulating or is it just flattery? Possibly both.
“What are you smiling about?” Max asks. He inches forward, eager to see what has tickled my feminine fancy.
Of course I giggle and say, “Oh nothing.” Max doesn’t need to see this, but he sneaks a peek and his expression gets all confused and annoyed. “What the—?”
I have to admit, I get it. We just got off the phone with a Swiss billionaire who is totally in love with me, and now @Jules_In_Briefs is thinking about me on Instagram in his underwear. It’s kind of a lot.
Max makes a disgusted face and says, “How many boyfriends do you have?”