I laugh, a shocked sound that I quickly cut off. “I don’t know what this is, but—”
“Shut up and listen.” He rakes a hand through his thinning black hair. “I told you I was committed.” His eyes find mine. “But I haven’t met my companion yet.”
Wow. Okay. Something’s wrong with this guy. Is he not right in the head? If he hadn’t shown me his work credentials, I would’ve walked out. Instead, I squint at him, silently prompting him to continue.
“I just came out of a relationship. An agreement. My partner…he…uh, reunited with his ex and didn’t renew our agreement.” Pain clouds his eyes, and he blinks. “So I signed a second agreement, got matched with a new companion. I’ll meet him when he moves into my place next week.”
“What?” I lean forward, voice low. “You contract your relationships?” I shake my head, baffled. “Why?”
“It’s…more efficient. I work long hours and—”
The waiter shuffles out of the kitchen, carrying a tray of food piping with steam. The aroma of garlic and pesto permeates the air as he serves two dishes of gnocchi, tops off our waters, and replaces my beer with a new one. He returns to the kitchen with his wife on his heels, leaving Evan and me alone in tense silence.
“Eat.” Evan picks up a fork, stabs a dumpling, and scoots it through the white sauce. “I’m a client of an exclusive company that provides companionship to a small network of people like me. People who can afford to invest in arranged relationships.”
Exclusive service. Arranged relationships. Five grand for an interview. The proposal he hasn’t spelled out hits me sideways. He’s talking about male escorts. It can’t be anything else. I choke on a bite of pasta and press a fist against my chest.
“Already told you.” I reach for the glass of water and drain it in an attempt to cool my rising temper. “I’m not whoring—”
“It’s not a brothel.” His eyes harden. “They don’t sell sex by the hour—”
“But they do sell sex.” I jerk forward, bracing an elbow on the table. “You brought me here to propose I become a gigolo for some secret society of doctors and rich folks? I don’t have a problem with your sexual orientation, could care less where you put your dick. But I will not let a man fuck me, not even for money.”
I might’ve reached rock bottom, but I won’t go there. Not ever.
“It’s not like that.” His face reddens. “There are female clients. Infidelity is a respectable—”
“Infidelity?” My smirk feels more like a grimace. “Appropriate.”
“Are you going to let me talk?”
I shrug. “It’s your wasted breath.” I dig into the gnocchi, my hope for employment crushed like everything else in my life.
“Look, I’ve tried the dating sites, the bar hookups, the friend-of-a-friend connections.” He takes a bite, chews slowly, and swallows with a scowl. “I can’t seem to hang on to someone longer than a few weeks.” A self-depreciating smile. “Funny how I can treat every heart condition known to man, but when it comes to relationships, I always end up with a guy hellbent on destroying my heart.” He rubs his forehead and sighs. “That’s why Infidelity is so appealing. They have a remarkable ability to pair clients like me with an employee who fits.”
“If that’s the case, why are you on your second contract?”
“Agreement. That’s what they call it. And my situation is uncommon. My companion…” He closes his eyes for a brief moment. “We were perfect together. He would’ve stayed and renewed the agreement, but…”
“The ex.”
“Yeah.” He stabs his fork a little too forcibly in a dumpling. “He shared five years with the ex. Only a year with me. So when the ex showed back up—”
“Wait. Did you say a year?” My eyes widen. “The agreement can last that long?”
“One year is mandatory.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “Relationships aren’t built in a pay-by-the-hour motel room.”
“I want a job, not a fucking relationship.” I glower at my plate of pasta, appetite gone. “Thanks for dinner.” Where’s the waiter? “I’m gonna get this boxed up and head—”
“Take the interview. Then make your decision. If you don’t like what they tell you, you’ll walk away with five Gs, no strings attached.”
A knot of too-good-to-be-true coils in my stomach. “You know those timeshare scams? The kind where they offer you spectacular prizes for sitting through a one-hour presentation, which turns into an all-day sales pitch that leaves you brainwashed and broke?” I finish off my beer. “Your one hour is up.”
“No offense, but I get the feeling you’re already broke.” His gaze roams my face with too much scrutiny. “And you don’t strike me as someone who’s easily manipulated.”
True, but desperate men do desperate things. I reach for my beer and remember it’s empty. “What do you get out of this?”