Page 73 of Burn for You (Slow Burn 1)
He turned away and raked both hands through his hair, and I knew that mysterious response was as good as I was getting.
Flustered and unsteady, I hastily scooped my hair clip from the floor. I had all my hair stuffed into it in record-setting time, though I probably looked like an escapee from the mental asylum, goggle-eyed, wild haired, shaking and sweating. I smoothed a hand down the front of my white chef’s coat, which did absolutely nothing to calm me, but at least wicked the moisture from my palm.
I said, “Well. That was . . .”
My mind was as blank as a fresh sheet of paper.
Without turning around, Jackson blew out a hard, shuddering breath. Over his shoulder he said, “Get the contract reviewed by an attorney as soon as possible. Send the invoice to me. And I need to meet your mother.”
He opened the door and was gone.
I sank slowly into my chair and allowed my knees to stop knocking and my heart to slow down before I went out to see about the meat.
The next day I visited an attorney in town who looked at Jackson’s contract for a long time while the wrinkles on his forehead multiplied faster than rabbits. More than once he glanced up at me across from him as I nervously twisted my fingers together, aiming for nonchalant and missing by a continent.
Judging strictly from his expression, he thought I might be wearing a hidden camera.
“Miss Hardwick,” he began carefully, pushing the contract toward me across his desk as if he thought it might burst into flames. “This is . . . unusual.”
My laugh was closer to a donkey’s bray. “You don’t say!”
“I’ve never seen anything quite like this before,” he said, disturbed. Under the fluorescent lights, his bald head glowed like a streetlamp. “I assume that you’re entering into this agreement due to . . .” he coughed politely into his hand. “Financial problems?”
“Bingo. So give me the bad news.”
He looked startled. “You’re marrying a man solely for his money. What other bad news do you need?”
He was lucky this was on Jackson’s dime, because that little zinger would have made me get up and walk out before he could dispense whatever sage advice he’d be dispensing.
“I’m talking about the contract. What’s bad in there for me?”
He gave me a look like I’d completely failed to listen to his first question.
I sighed. “I know. You can stop judging me now, okay? Just tell me if there’s anything in the contract we should counter. For instance, the part where it talks about me not having to have sex with him. Is that in order?”
It was obvious I was shortening the poor attorney’s life span. No one blinked that rapidly who was long for this earth.
“Yes,” he said after a rough throat clearing. “But we should counter for more money. One million dollars for five years is only two hundred thousand dollars per year. That works out to”—he did a mental calculation faster than I could stand up—“five hundred fifty-five dollars per day. Give or take. In my professional opinion, that’s not nearly enough compensation for the length of time involved. You should be asking for five million at least, ideally double that.”
I waved an impatient hand in the air. “The amount stays the same. That’s not the important part.”
He leaned back in his chair in slow motion, his liver-spotted hands spread flat over his desk. I imagined he was trying not to fall over in shock. “I don’t concur, Miss Hardwick. When you’re marrying for money, money is the only important part.”
I said, “It’s complicated.”
“Uncomplicate it for me.”
When my lips twisted, he sorrowfully shook his head. “I’m sorry, Miss Hardwick, but my advice to you is not to sign this document. It isn’t in your best interest. You could conceivably make one million dollars in five years with the income from your restaurant.”
Not in my wildest dreams, sir. And I don’t have that much time.
I drummed my fingers impatiently on the arm of the chair. “Aside from the money, is there anything else in there I should worry about? Any language you want to tweak? Any offensive codicils we should remove? Anything?”
After examining my face in silence for what was definitely longer than polite, he said, “A few minor points. It’s very straightforward, actually, and fair, if such a word could be applied to this situation.”
“Good,” I said, standing. I couldn’t wait to leave. “Can you have the changes to me by tomorrow?”
He squinted up at me from behind his eyeglasses. “May I say something?”
