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"You're welcome, Aunty Zara." He squeezes my hand. "And I won't splash water at anyone else again. I know I shouldn't have, but I was just upset for you because he was so mean, and I don't like it when people are mean to you."
"I know. I don't like it when people are mean to me either." I look at them and watch Charlotte rub her belly and let out a deep sigh. "Come on, guys. Let's go to Shake Shack and get a burger."
"Really?" Charlotte says excitedly, "We're going to Shake Shack?"
"Yeah." I nod, even though every part of my brain is screaming at me, "You do not have money for Shake Shack. You still have to find rent." I ignore those thoughts. Twenty or thirty dollars at Shake Shack won’t make my situation any worse. It wouldn’t make it better, but it won’t make it worse.
The kids are happy as we walk down the street, and I’m glad to brighten their day. As we go to cross the street, I see a flier on a pole that captures my attention. "Want to make $1,500 a night?" It screams at me, and I stop in my tracks.
I stare at it for a few seconds, debating whether or not to take one of the phone number strips. "Fifteen hundred dollars a night is a lot, but what do I have to do for that fifteen hundred dollars?” I mutter. Though right now, I don't care. Right now, I need to make money. As long as I don't have to fuck a guy to do it, I'm willing to do pretty much anything.
I grab the number and put it into my wallet. I'll call when we get back home.
Maybe, just maybe, it won't be some horrible job. Maybe, just maybe, it'll work for a couple of nights to make some quick money. At least I know Jackson Pruitt won’t be at the interview.
16
Jackson
I hold the manila folder I just picked up as I enter the restaurant to meet my dad. It contains everything there is to know about Zara Hathaway, and I feel a little stupid for having assumed she was a journalist targeting me for a story.
"Oh, Zara Hathaway." I shake my head as I think about her and her beautiful brown eyes. "So you’re not a journalist. And as far as I can tell, your little newspaper column is for dating advice." I chuckle. She doesn’t seem the sort of woman to give anyone dating advice, especially not good dating advice.
I feel that honesty is the best policy when dating. She hadn't even told me that she had two kids. A part of me thinks I shouldn't have expected her to tell me. We'd both gone into the night knowing it would only be a one-night stand. Yet I’m disappointed that she kept that from me. I am happy that she’s not a journalist. At least that assumption had been incorrect. She’s not deliberately targeting me so that she can get a story. That makes me feel better about the whole thing. It almost makes me want to have another night with her. Almost.
Now that I have her folder, I have her phone number and address. I could call her, text her, or show up at her apartment if I want to. Not that I want to show up at her place. I can still picture her shocked face when she saw me at the interview. I groan as I think about how I'd gone on about the fact that she couldn't get an Oscar because of her bad acting. She hadn't been acting. I step into the restaurant and look around. I see my father sitting in his regular seat at his regular table, and I head over toward him. He stands up, and I notice for the first time that he looks older and grayer. His mortality is speaking to me now, and there's a thud in my heart that I've never felt before.
"Jackson, so good to see you," he says, holding out his hand.
I'm glad he didn't go for a hug. There are some things I don't think I’ll be able to take from him. "You too, Dad," I say. "How are you feeling?"
"I'm okay," he says, nodding. "I feel like I've been given a new lease on life."
He sits back down, and I wonder if this is all part of some game plan or if the words are actually true. "How have you been?"
"Good. Business is good."
"I see that." He nods. "You and Ethan are doing really well."
"We are." I nod.
"Rosser International is one of the top companies in the world for a reason, nearly as high up as Pruitt Holdings," he says. I watch him with suspicion. "But we won't get into that now," he continues. "Would you like a drink? An old-fashioned?"
"Sure," I say, leaning back. I place the folder on the table, and he looks down at it with questioning eyes.
"You have papers for me to sign?"
"No." I shake my head. "Just some business I picked up from the HR office on my way here."
"Oh.”
I don't want to get into it, but for some reason, I find myself explaining more than I normally would have.
"I'm looking for an executive assistant, and I had an interview yesterday. Someone I thought may have been a plant for the New York Times trying to get a story on me and possibly you."
"Oh," Hiis face constricts. "And?"
"And I was wrong," I say, shaking my head. "She's not a journalist. Well, she has a little column on dating, but she's not a hard-hitting journalist."
