Page 196 of Fake it ’Til Fall

His eyes lower.

Slowly.

Not to my pants.

To the bare skin where his shirt has slid off one shoulder.

My pulse immediately begins behaving like a poorly trained intern.

“I wasn’t,” he says.

I swallow. “Weren’t you?”

“No.” His voice drops. “I was trying to hire you.”

“Oh.” I look down at my laptop, because looking at him has become hazardous. “Right. Professional. Founding Executive Director. Salary. Benefits. Authority. Budget. Dental. A title that makes me sound like I should own blazers that don’t come from a sale rack.”

“You’d look good in any blazer.”

“That was not in the offer letter.”

“I can add it.”

“Please don’t write compliments into my employment contract.”

“Noted.”

I set the noodles on the coffee table and pull the laptop closer. The resignation email sits there, waiting.

“You know,” I say, typing nothing, “I did like the work.”

“I know.”

“I like literacy programs. I like after-school tutoring. I like donor packets and matching volunteers to the right kids and making chaos into something people can actually use.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t hate the mission.”

“You hated being underpaid to care too much.”

I look at him.

He says it as if it’s a fact—just the thing I was trying to say without handing myself the full truth.

“Yes,” I say. “That.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Open Ice has the mission and the pay.”

“Very efficient pitch.”

“I’ve been practicing.”

“On who?”

“Puck.”

I glance at Puck, who is sleeping with one paw in the air. “He seems persuaded.”