I tilt my head back so he has to see my face. “Good thing I’m only offering you a job.”
“It is not a job.”
“It is if I say so.”
“You cannot pay wages.”
“I am paying in debt reduction, food, and unsolicited conversation.”
“That is not legal compensation.”
“You want to report me after I bailed you out?”
He exhales through his nose, and there it is, almost hidden by rain and misery: the faintest hint of that reluctant smile. The sight does something absolutely irresponsible to my heart.
“I would not report you,” he says.
“Then congratulations. You start tomorrow.”
“I have not agreed.”
“You said you’d repay me.”
“I did.”
“I accept labor.”
His eyes narrow. “You planned this.”
“I improvised aggressively.”
“That is worse.”
“It is one of my best qualities.”
He looks back toward the rain, but the refusal in him has weakened. I can see it. Maybe because honor gives him an excuse to stay. Maybe because he wants the excuse and hates that I noticed. Maybe because both of us are standing under a police awning in the middle of the night after a gang fight, pretending this is primarily about money.
Finally he says, “Until the debt is paid.”
“Sure.”
“And repairs are complete.”
“Absolutely.”
“And until Ron is no longer a threat.”
“That sounds suspiciously indefinite.”
“It is practical.”
“It is possessive.”
His gaze returns to mine. “No.”
The denial comes too fast.
I should not enjoy that.
