“You didn’t!”
“I did.”
“Your poor mom!”
I know Lynda. She’s nice. She means well. She is a little overbearing and, well, motherly, but she is a mom. I’ve often wished my own mom was more like her. Like she cared. I mean, I know she cares. It’s just that it would be nice to have a motherly mother once in a while. But I could see how it would get old. I think. Maybe.
“Don’t,” Philippe growls. “I know, okay. It wasn’t nice. I’m not nice. I was mean. I am mean. I’ve been a Grade A asshole, but now I’m stuck with this. This problem. I need a date for my sister’s wedding.”
“No! Your mom knows who I am. She’s not going to believe it!”
“Why not? We’ve known each other for three years. We could say we kept it a secret because we didn’t want it to get around the office. It would appear clichéd and unprofessional. You’re my assistant, and I’m your boss. It wouldn’t look right, so we didn’t tell anyone. It’s new. Like the last couple of months new.”
“It’s not going to work.” My mind works fast, trying to come up with a feasible protest. “I mean, I’m not rich.” Please kill me now.
“It doesn’t matter,” Philippe snorts. “My dad built this company from nothing. My parents weren’t rich either. It was just the last decade that things really took off. My parents were never like that. My mom still drives the same car she’s had for the past decade.”
“Why do you drive the overpriced, overrated lime mobile then?” Damn. I should have sucked that one back.
Philippe looks oddly amused. Like he almost likes having someone tell him how they really feel. “How would you know if it’s overrated? It’s quite fun to drive, actually.”
“I don’t know. For myself, I’d rather have the new house, but whatever. I’m sure you have that too.”
His eyes narrow. I guess I’m pushing my luck here with the honesty thing. “If you’re done with the running commentary on my life choices, I’ll tell you what I have in mind.”
“If this is a do-it-or-get-fired thing, you might as well just fire me.”
“It’s not. But I am willing to give you something if you help me out.”
“I go to the wedding and pretend to be your nice, doting, sweet girlfriend who isn’t a gold digger and who sees through the tough front you put up to the sensitive, soft, caring, sweet man beneath, and you pretend you never saw the journal?”
Philippe rolls his eyes. “Something like that. I’m also willing to throw in a three dollar an hour raise. And more comprehensive benefits.”
I think hard about it. “No.”
His really beautiful eyes bulge out. “No?”
“No. I need something else. I live with my Granny. She’s the most important person in the world to me, and I love her. I actually live in her house. She’s supported herself for years, but everything keeps getting more expensive, and she’s on a pension. The health premiums she pays for her health insurance and medical benefits are insane. I’m paying for part of them because she can’t afford to. I also buy all of our groceries. I—I want you to—I want you to figure out a way to give her coverage.”
“I can’t do that!”
“You can. And you will. If you want me to do this, those are my terms.”
“I could give you a raise to make it more affordable. I could talk with our benefits person in HR and see if there’s anyone they could recommend she talk to or if she could switch to the company that provides for ours, but I’m sure we couldn’t cover her unless she were a spouse or a dependent child.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“The raise,” he repeats. His eyes narrow. “I’ll give you an hourly raise and a bonus each month for the next year so you can afford it until you figure out an alternative. If there even is one.”
“People get old…is that what you’re saying?”
“Why? Because it would be the typical asshole thing to say?”
Yes. “No.”
“People don’t always get old,” Philippe mutters. He looks like he just took himself by surprise, and I see it. Those amazing grey-blue eyes flood with pain.
His dad. He’s talking about his dad. What a piece of work I am. “I’ll do it,” I blurt, just so I don’t have to see his pain anymore. “I—we’ll need a dry run, though. Dinner. To talk about stuff and get our story straight. Or something. I don’t know. To get used to each other.”
“Should I practice kissing you?”
My mouth goes totally dry, and my lady bits do a freaking leap through the ceiling before I realize he’s kidding. He’s mocking me. “Uh, no.” I scramble to recover. “That’s not needed, I’m sure. This kind of public display of attention is gross. I think most people think so. Just holding hands would be appropriate, I think. If even that. I think we should practice looking at each other. People who are into each other look at each other differently. Your mom will know if we’re faking it. And we need to get our facts in line, so we don’t give conflicting evidence.”