Dirty Money

“Thank you.” I take a furtive picture of his license plate and text his info to my sister, explaining to her where I’m going. I’m a slow typer, so it takes me a few moments and I wander slowly toward his car, focused. Before I can hit send, I pause. I’m going to have to climb into his truck. Somehow. I put the toe of one shoe delicately onto the step and look up, searching for a handlebar of some kind.

“Here, let me help,” Mr. Price says, and the next thing I know, his hands are on my waist and he’s lifting me into the truck like I weigh nothing at all.

And okay, I must be dazzled by his money, because those big hands on my waist? It feels . . . amazing. His grip sends a hot pulse through my body and I cling to the seat as I sit down. Mercy. No wonder women like it when men get all caveman on them. I’m suddenly seeing the appeal.

Breathless, I finish sending the info to my sister. By that time, Mr. Price has climbed into the other side of the truck. He looks over at me, that intense look on his face.

“What?” I ask, feeling tingly and weird. I want to stare at his beard, because I have this intuition that under all that facial hair, there’s a really sexy beast of a guy. I just know it. I shouldn’t think about it, either, but I can’t help myself.

“You wanna send your sister a pic of my face? Extra security?”

“That’s a good idea,” I admit, and pull my phone back out. “You’re okay with that?”

“Long as you get in the picture with me, I’m good.”

Oh. Why does that make me all tingly? “Sure.” I hold the phone up and lean toward him a bit. He leans in close as well, and I wonder for a moment if he’s going to smell my hair or something strange and intense like that. But he’s only gazing at my phone camera, and I’m the one that looks all flushed and bothered. I snap the picture quickly. “Thank you.”

“Of course. Don’t want your family to worry about you. You’re safe with me.”

That feels . . . strangely possessive. Odd to be hearing from someone I just met. But I’m not getting a weird vibe from him, so I buckle up, send the picture, and look over as the truck pulls out of the parking lot. “So where are you taking me to dinner?”

“Got anything in mind?”

Hmm. I eye his clothing. I’d normally take a client out for something fancy just to make them think I’m a big deal, but he’s not dressed for the part and I don’t want to embarrass him. “Do you like sushi?”

“Am I a dick if I say no?”

I laugh. “How about barbecue, then?”

His brows furrow together and he gives me a disbelieving look. “Barbecue?”

“Yes?”

“I ain’t taking a lady out to dinner to eat ribs.” He snorts, as if the idea is ludicrous. “You deserve someplace classy. Someplace nice.”

I don’t point out that he’s covered in dirt. “All right, then. Let me think.”

“I know the place,” he says confidently, glancing over at me. “You let me handle it. I’ll let you pick next time.”

I’m surprised when, a few minutes later, we pull up to a small restaurant tucked away in a quieter section of town. Is it weird that I expected Red Lobster? I’ve never been to this place, but the name is in French, which makes my stomach twist a little with worry. I really hope this doesn’t get awkward and they don’t turn him away at the door for being underdressed.

He roars the truck up to the front parking space and I glance out at the deserted parking lot. Is this place even open? It’s dinnertime and most restaurants are packed at this hour. Mr. Price insists on getting my door for me, and then walking me up to the front of the restaurant. He’s acting like a gentleman, which is sweet. I can’t remember the last time a guy held a door open for me. Even if it’s all part of some plan of his to win me over, it’s working. I’m flattered. I just met the guy, and even though he’s got a bushy beard, is covered in dirty clothes, I’m still feeling slightly dazzled by how he treats me.

Like I’m some sort of rare jewel he feels lucky to have run across. I’ve never encountered that before. It’s . . . nice. Strange, but nice. This man is a stranger to me. He’s absolutely not my type and a client to boot, and yet in the space of a few minutes, I’ve gone from thinking no way to feeling utterly flustered every time he focuses his intense gaze on me.

The door opens as we approach the front of the restaurant, and an utterly gorgeous woman in a white blouse and black skirt beams a smile at us. “Welcome back, Mr. Price. Your table is ready.”

He nods as if expecting this, and puts a possessive hand at the small of my back, steering me into the restaurant.

“Welcome back?” I ask him as we enter. The lights are low and dim, and the rest of the restaurant is a sea of empty tables. “Did you already eat?”

“Nah. I stopped by and asked how much it’d cost to hold the place reserved for me and a lady friend tonight.” He stops at a private booth off to one side, as if this table was chosen exclusively for us, and gestures for me to take a seat.

I slide in and give him a curious look as he sits across from me. “How did you know I’d say yes?”

He shrugs his big shoulders and pulls off his trucker cap, tossing it onto the booth bench beside him, then runs his hand through equally shaggy dark hair. “I didn’t.”

So he just threw this money down in the hopes that I’d go out with him? Something else occurs to me . . . “Wait. Were you going to go to dinner with any realtor?” I’ve suddenly gone from bewildered but flattered to confused.

“Nah, I went there looking for you.”

“For me?” I blink. “Why me?”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. I don’t realize what I’m looking at until he pushes it toward me and I see my own face on it. It’s one of the Three Jacks marketing flyers. There I am, in the same suit I’m wearing today—one of my five expensive work suits, since I can’t afford more—with a serene smile on my face. I know this photo. It’s the one Farah hates because they put me in it instead of her. It’s the one where I felt like a ridiculous idiot to be standing with the partners when I am clearly not, but was tapped because I was the “cute blonde girl in the office.” Since then, I’ve seen the awkward photo at bus stops, on benches, at the ends of restaurant tables, and in newspaper flyers. It’s clear he picked this up from somewhere.

And it’s clear from how many times it’s been folded that it’s been carried around a lot.

I don’t know what to say.

I stare at the picture for a moment, trying to think. I’m spared an immediate response when the waitress comes over, a gorgeous brunette with a perfect figure and even more perfect hair and makeup. She beams at the two of us and then gives Mr. Price a very come-hither look that is shockingly blatant.

He doesn’t even look at her. His gaze is entirely focused on me.

“Would you two like to see the wine list?” she asks, her voice husky and seductive. Her hand goes to her hip and her breasts thrust out. It’d be cartoonish if it wasn’t happening right in front of me. One thing’s for sure—she definitely knows who he is and she wants herself a piece of this big, dirty beard.

I feel like I’ve been dropped into bizarro land in the last hour.

“Would you?” he asks me.

“Would I what?”

He hasn’t even glanced in her direction, his attention a hundred percent on me. “Wine list?”

“Or shall I get the sommelier for you?” She leans even closer to Mr. Price’s side of the table. Any closer and she’s practically going to slide in next to him. I can feel myself frowning. To her, it’s like I don’t even exist. Jesus.

I do know how to order wine, though. It’s one of the things I’ve crammed for in my long list of business etiquette miscellany that I’ve prepped for. White wine with fish, a rosato for chicken, and a petite sirah for steak. Mr. Price definitely looks like a steak guy to me. “Petite sirah?” I suggest.

He glances at the waitress for the first time, and the look on his face grows cold when he sees how close she’s leaning in.

She straightens. “We do have a lovely sirah from Israel?”

“Sounds wonderful. Thank you.” All I know about sirah is that it’s pretty dark compared to the rosé boxed wine I normally drink, but it’s also what is considered “appropriate” so I roll with it. It’s not about me as much as it is image. So much of this business is image and how you present yourself.

I look down at the crumpled picture of myself. Speaking of images . . .

The waitress moves away, and when she’s gone, I hand the picture back to him. “I’m afraid I still don’t understand.”

“I went to your office looking for you,” he says in a slow, easy drawl. “I want to fix my image.”

Maybe I’m just not understanding. I give my head a little shake. “What’s wrong with your image?”

His eyes light up and he gives me a devastating smile, like I’ve just said the best thing possible. “You are real sweet, you know that?”

I can feel myself blushing at his approval. I didn’t mean it quite like that, but I don’t correct him, either.

“Well,” he says when I remain silent, and strokes his crazy beard. “You know how I made my money?”

“Actually, I have no clue.” I clasp my hands on the edge of the table. “I don’t know anything about you other than you made a bunch of creepy plans to go out to dinner with me before you even met me and you’re carrying around a picture of me like a stalker. And somehow in here, I’m hoping you still want to buy a house because otherwise I should probably go.”

He laughs, throwing his head back.

The waitress returns with the wine, uncorks the bottle, and pours two glasses for us. She looks at us patiently, and I take my glass. At this point we’re supposed to sniff it to admire the bouquet and swirl it and some other fancy stuff.