Page 3 of Choosing Samantha

I study her face. “How do you know so much about this?”

“My cousin worked for them last year and paid off her student loans.”

“By going on dates?” This seems too good to be true—there must be a catch.

“Mostly.” She shrugs again, making me wonder if she has a nervous twitch. “The agency has strict rules. Anything physical is a private decision between consenting adults and never part of the assignment.” And there it is, the too-good-to-be-true part—sex is always part of the deal. She gently squeezes my hand and gives me a sympathetic look. “Sam, nobody is asking you to become someone you aren’t. You can quit after one assignment. But one brunch could cover your rent and groceries for a month.”

“One brunch?” I clarify, wanting to make sure I know what I’m getting into before I agree.

“The clients are extremely wealthy.” Kendra wiggles her eyebrows, lightening the mood.

“That doesn’t make this any less weird,” I snort.

“No, but it does make the weirdness profitable.” She’s right—money can make anything tolerable.

My phone vibrates on the table, making a loose piece of glass shift beneath the tape. A notification fills the unbroken corner of the screen.

ELITE CONNECTIONS: You have received an assignment request.

Kendra’s eyes widen. “Open it,” she says, sounding nearly giddy with excitement.

“I’m considering throwing the phone into Lake Michigan.” I scowl at the cracked screen, unsure whether I’m ready to open the request.

“You can’t afford a replacement.” Kendra lets go of my hand, freeing it to read the message.

“Thank you for reminding me.” I tap the notification—the client’s name appears first: ARCHIBALD JAMISON III. Next is a photo of a dark-haired man in an expensive black suit. His expression is serious but not cold, and his eyes are a striking shade between gray and blue. He has a strong jaw, broad shoulders, and a mouth that seems to have forgotten how to smile. Something inside me wants to make him smile. Thirty-four, founder and chief executive officer of BlackBox Security, the rest of the message reads.

I read the event details twice.

Sunday brunch with business associates and their spouses. Public venue. Two-hour minimum. Conversation and social companionship only.

Beneath the description is the proposed payment. I nearly drop the phone. “Kendra.”

“I see it.” Her face is inches from the screen as she reads over my shoulder.

“That’s more than I make in six weeks.” Sad, but true. Some rich asshole is throwing around five thousand dollars for a two-hour brunch date, and I can barely scrape together enough change for a five-dollar cup of coffee.

“I know.”

“What kind of man pays that much for someone to eat brunch?”

“One who looks like that and is somehow still single.” She taps the screen, making me cringe as a corner of the tape curls up.

I enlarge his photograph—his eyes look guarded—not mean or evil, but lonely. Realizing that makes him seem even more dangerous.

Attraction is a complication I don’t need. I’ve managed to avoid it through high school and most of college—between classes, work, and weekend glassblowing lessons, I barely had time to sleep. I’ve certainly never had sex. I haven’t even come close—not once. Now, if I take the escort assignment, it might be expected.

I look at Arch’s picture again—something in his eyes tells me I won’t have to worry about him asking me to do something I’m not ready for. “What would I wear?”

Kendra lets out a squeal of delight, to the utter disgust of the guy two tables away. “We’ll find something.”

***

On Sunday morning, I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, questioning every decision that brought me here. Kendra styles my long brown hair into a loose braid over one shoulder. She adds a little makeup, but I refuse to wear the dramatic red lipstick she wants me to wear.

The dress was mine, a cream sundress with tiny blue and yellow flowers. It has a fitted bodice, thin straps, and a soft skirt that falls just below my knees. I bought it at a thrift store two summers ago. According to Kendra, I look romantic and approachable—though to me, I look like someone who got lost on her way to a picnic.

“You’re beautiful,” she says from the doorway.