Bryce pulls out his phone, typing something into what I assume are his notes.
“That’s a good point. I hadn’t even thought of it for myself but it’s a necessity for sure. What else?”
“A daily max of hours. The time was vague.” After years of eight hours being the minimum, not the regular, I can’t imagine doing that to myself anymore—especially not at a flat rate.
“Eight hours maximum, I swear. Some days might be less, depending on what we have going on but you’ll still get your full daily fee regardless. Plus no Mondays or Sundays, unless there’s an emergency or clear need. If your job was anything like my previous one, then let me reassure you the last thing I want to do is overwork you.”
He’s careful in how he phrases it and I know by the way he says it that he’ll be overworking whether I do or not.
It’s his business. His problem.
Quirking one of his brows up as if to encourage me to keep going, I can’t help but stare at how his hands envelop the phone he’s been typing into.
“I’d like a share. Nothing huge, but if I’m going to be collaborating and contributing creatively as much as you say, I’d like to feel that.” It’s a huge ask and could be make or break, but I’d be mad if I asked for anything less than what I deserved for hard work provided.
His chest rises with a big breath and shudders on the exhale as he thinks it over.
“You don’t have to accept my terms.” I steel myself for the rejection. “I’m sure there are others out there just as qualified without as many asks, but I’m not going to take less than I’m worth.”
His hand wipes over his scruff as he considers and then he sighs, mind apparently made up.
“Do you want to know why you? I mean, I mentioned knowing your qualifications but it’s more than that.” His voice is quiet, as if divulging a secret he’d rather not.
Leaning forward on my elbows to absorb what he’s about to say, I wait on tenterhooks.
“Your cover letter. I—there was such a?—”
Desperation?Bitterness?My snarky little mind-gremlin remarks and I hate that she’s right. It was those things. I’ve never felt more like Meredith Grey doing that whole “Pick me. Choose me,” thing since I sent out my first applications in college.
“—hunger to it.” Bryce doesn’t sound put off, and I like the way he phrased that.
I am hungry. For praise. For validation. For being someone’s first choice when it comes to work.
And other things?
Married. He’s married and I’m not looking to get into a relationship now. There’s too many pieces in the air; if I started dating on top of all of it I would lose my focus. If I have any hope of this being a way to prove to myself, and others like Andrew, that I have what it takes to lead a project from the ground up—then I need to stay on track.
“It resonated with me. This isn’t just a trivial project for me. I have . . . people that have doubted my ability to tackle something like this. I’ve been accused of being too meek andcompliant.” Bryce spits the word like it’s poison and I can’t fathom that being true.
He might not be the most forceful person I’ve met but there’s a quiet way he holds himself that feels capable. Solid. Steady and dependable and so much like how I try to come across that I wonder if my inner doubt is what people see instead.
“I aim to prove them wrong. This isn’t a joke to me. I’m sinking every penny of my money into this and I plan for it to succeed. So I need someone as hungry as I am to make that happen.”
Something I can relate to, considering I’ve thrown a bunch of money into moving before I even knew I had the job. So, I stop pretending this isn’t what I want and stick my hand out across the table.
Bryce blinks at it for a second before he realizes what I’m saying with that gesture. His large hand folds around mine again, and we shake on it. Lips quirked into the beginnings of a smile, those golden flecks in his eyes almost seem to sparkle.
“When can you start? Do you plan to commute or do you need help finding someplace nearby? I might be able to put some feelers out for you.” His words come out in a rush, excitement an undercurrent to the haste.
My chuckle stops Bryce for a moment and he sits back as if he’s realized he’s overstepping—and with the tug between us notices he’s still touching me. Our fingers release and his hands knit together on the table top as he schools his expression back to the neutral-if-sad one from when I first clapped eyes on him.
“No need. I’ve got it handled. Is tomorrow too soon to start?” No point mentioning how overeager I am that I’ve already got an apartment for a job that wasn’t mine at the time.
“Would Saturday work for you? I need some time to put things together—a contract and that sort of thing. I also need to reach out to a realtor to find the right space and viewing venues on a Saturday when we can get a good idea of weekend foot traffic would probably be best.” His smile is careful but devastating because I can tell just how much it would change his face if it was a full-on grin. Potential is always painful. Unfulfilled usually, and a word that says “not good enough.” Although I hate to think it and lean into the stereotype of being unsatisfied with what he’s given, I want a real one of those. A smile that goes all the way and not just a mirage of what it could be.
Why, I couldn’t say—or am not willing to.
One thing’s for sure. When I get back to the apartment I have two phone calls to make. First, Sebastian and Farren to thank them and update them, and figure out if my apartment has been leased so that’s one less bill I have to worry about this month. And then Ángel.
