Page 3 of The Husband Contract
“I’m good. I’m really looking forward to our date.” He lowers his voice. “How do you feel about first-date hookups?”
“I don’t really know...” My voice trails off. I don’t want to be rude to him, especially since I’m sure my nosy neighbor is listening to every second of the conversation.
“I mean, we’ve technically been dating two months now, which is plenty of time?—”
“We haven’t even met yet, Clark,” I say softly. “I don’t consider us to be in a relationship at this point,” I say honestly. “I mean, it’s likely that we will connect, but let’s not rush anything...” I am careful with my words. The truth of the matter is that I’m a huge romantic. I believe in love. I believe in soulmates. I’m not a prude in any way. But it has to feel right in the moment. And I haven’t really had any moments with Clark, though I am excited to meet him.
“In person,” he says huskily. “Our hearts have met many times.”
I want to groan. I normally love sweet, poetic phrases, but from Clark, it almost seems disingenuous or like he’s trying too hard. Sometimes I feel like he’s reading off apreviously written list of comments to make when we talk. The comments always seem slightly off and never really fit the moment, but I would never say that to him.
“Well, I am looking forward to finally going out in person. I’m grateful you were able to find a date that works.”
“Well, you know. I’ve been busy, but I have some free time now. I wanted to ensure that our souls could be one under the sun. For this is the season of love.”
“Umm, yes, I am excited to hear about your travels,” I say honestly. Clark has mentioned several times about traveling around the world, and I am looking forward to hearing about his adventures.
“Oh, you know, I came up with a list of questions to ask you to see if we’re the perfect match.”
“Oh, yes?”
“Do you like ironing?”
“Ironing?”
“Yes, it’s?—”
“Oh, Clark, I’m so sorry, the train is arriving at Grand Central. I have to go. I will call you later, okay?”
“Oh, fine... I see.” He pauses, and I hear some papers wrinkling. “Parting is sweet sorrow, but I will see you in the morrow.”
“Have a good evening, Clark,” I say and hang up. I close my eyes and rub my forehead. I can already tell it’s going to be a long night. A very long night.
“So, all you do is take the coats, hang the coats so that they don’t crease, give the members a number, and step back,” Norman, the head coat collector, informs me in a monotonevoice. He’s dressed in a suit and tie, and he hasn’t smiled at me once. “Can you handle that, Ms. Montgomery?”
“Doesn’t seem like brain surgery, so I think I’ll be okay.” I offer him a wide smile, but he just stares back at me, his dark eyes boring into mine like he thinks I’m crazy. “I was just joking. I....”
“I don’t care who hired you, but if you mess up the coats, you’re fired. I’ve been here for forty years and?—”
“What, you started working here before you were born?” I’m desperate to get a smile out of the man.
“Huh?” He blinks at me, and now I can tell he thinks I’m slow. Doesn’t he understand that I am just trying to butter him up?
“You look too young to have...” My voice trails off, as he’s not really taking my lie as a compliment. “So, umm, about the tips... how do they work exactly?”
“Tips?” He raises a stern eyebrow at me, his dark eyes seeming to judge me even more than they had before.
“I heard the tips were good.” I square my shoulders. I am here to make money. I want to be a business owner. I cannot back down from speaking what is on my mind. “I know the base pay is $17 an hour, but I heard the additional tips make up for that.... I mean, this is the Magnolia Club, the most exclusive club in Manhattan.”
“And we’d like it to stay that way.” He looks me up and down. “Where are you from? Staten Island?”
“Actually, I live in Whispering Haven.”
“Huh? Is that what they’re calling the projects these days?”
“It’s in Upstate New York. It took me an hour and a half to get here. My train ticket each way is $15. I was told this job would be worth the extra costs.”
“Tips are not generally shared until?—”
