He nods without hesitation. “As much as I can help you. I have an immense network of contacts that deal with the supernatural. I can reach out.”
That pleases me quite a bit. To know there are others out there who know, too. Who knows… maybe through introductions by Carrick, I can find someone better suited to help me along?
Someone not so frustrating, standoffish, and annoyingly beautiful, which is distracting, to say the least. Not that it matters. I can tell by the way he looks at me that he finds nothing about me attractive at all.
And even if I find him beyond gorgeous on the exterior, everything on the inside is absolutely unappealing. It’s truly proof that looks aren’t everything.
My mind starts moving through all possible scenarios for both of his offers, telling myself now is the time to ask questions. Once I commit, I’m committed.
“It seems to me,” I say cautiously, “that becoming a business owner is going to increase my work hours tremendously. I already work a lot, but I know that when you own the place, it’s even more. When exactly do you think I’ll have time to work with you on… well, the other thing?”
“You simply make the time, Miss Porter.”
“How?” I ask, thinking I’m already putting in a good sixty-plus hours a week when I factor in the weekends and the work I bring home to do at night.
“Any good businessperson surrounds themselves with the best people. You rely on your most dependable employees. For example, if you have a good day shift manager, you shouldn’t have to do a single day shift management duty at all.”
I frown because that seems antithetical to working hard as a business owner. “You make it sound like I’ll cut back on hours.”
“Quite the contrary,” he says, then he surprises me by rising from the chair. Again, he’s dressed in a tailored suit, and he buttons his jacket while staring down at me. “You’ll be working harder than ever, I imagine. But you will have more flexibility in your hours. Most of our work together will be done at night, though, so plan around that.”
I have to tip my head back to look at him. “Why at night?”
Carrick’s expression turns exasperated as if I’d just asked the most juvenile question ever. “Because I have a day job, too, Miss Porter.”
That effectively puts me in my place. It was a stupid question, and it was foolish of me to show that ignorance.
Oddly, though, it makes me pissed off at him instead of myself.
“What are you?” I demand, rising from my chair to maintain eye contact so I don’t get a pinched nerve in my neck. It doesn’t help all that much as he’s still monumentally taller than me.
“None of your business,” he replies smoothly, tucking one hand casually in his pocket.
Aha. That means he’s something as he didn’t come out and say he was human.
Or he’s just screwing with me.
Even though I’ve asked before, I feel I must ask again. “Are you fae?”
His gaze locks onto mine, and he doesn’t so much as blink. “No.”
“Daemon?” Because I need to ask that again as well since I didn’t trust his first answer.
Golden eyes lasered onto mine, his body stays statue still. “No.”
God, he sounds so believable, yet I have no reason to trust him at all.
“Would you like to feel my heartbeat, Miss Porter?” he asks, his tone patronizing. “Put your ear right against my breastbone and listen?”
“Fae and daemons don’t have heartbeats?” I ask curiously, ignoring the embarrassing flush of warmth the thought of placing my ear against his chest causes.
There’s a slight sparkle of amusement in his gaze. “They do, but you’re so intent to make me into something extraordinary. Maybe you’d like to cut my hand to see if my blood is red? Fae and daemon blood is black, by the way.”
From his pocket, his hand slips out, and there’s a switchblade in it. He holds it out toward me.
Wrinkling my nose, I shake my head. “No thank you.”
Carrick smirks as he returns the knife, but I’m not done with questions.
“How old are you?” I demand.
That surprises him and he arches a thick eyebrow, but, without hesitation, he pulls a wallet from inside his jacket breast pocket. Fishing out a piece of plastic, he hands me a Washington State driver’s license.
I take it, look at the date, and do a quick mental calculation. He’s thirty-four.
One thing is wrong, though. It states his eyes are brown, and that’s just a gross misstatement.
“Where were you born?” I ask, handing the license back.
He returns it to the wallet, and the wallet to the jacket. Ignoring my question, he instead says, “I’m going to send over some paperwork to you today. There will be the grant paperwork, and then the loan paperwork from me. Get an attorney to look it over before you sign.”