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Now we were getting somewhere. She was actually considering it.
“Not that he has any reason to,” I pointed out.
She gave me a face. “With all due respect, Rhyland—and let me assure you, I have none for you—you are more damaged than Cal’s hair when she went through that phase changing its color every week. And you’ve never had a steady girlfriend. And you are a literal, biblical man-whore. And the only feelings you are capable of are horniness and annoyance. So frankly, I can totally understand why he wouldn’t be happy to see us as a couple.”
Talk about a humbling experience. Engaging with Dylan Casablancas did so much mental damage I was surprised she wasn’t hired as a torture tool at Guantanamo Bay.
“We’ll tell our friends the truth,” I assured her, my come-hither smile on full display. “He knows I want to charm Marshall into working with me, and everyone will be happy I’m helping you settle in. He knows I’ll never break bro code.”
She rolled her eyes at that before gnawing on her lower lip in contemplation. In the background, I heard Gravity screaming at a high pitch, ping-ponging from room to room in the hallway. God help me, I detested kids. Even this one got on my nerves, and she was, by all definitions, cute and well-behaved.
“I’m not doing this for free.” Dylan parked a hand on her waist. “Especially if we have to be seen at events and pretend to tolerate each other.”
I snorted out a laugh. She stared at me blankly.
Oh. She was serious. She wanted me to pay her for…what, exactly? I didn’t even know if Bruce would need more than thishalf-assed meeting on the street to believe we were together. Then again, knowing the anal-retentive bastard, it was on-brand for him to make me jump through hoops, and I’d end up parading her around like a prize horse. This deal was far from over, and I was bound to see him a few more times at least before it was signed.
“Name your price.” Whatever it was, chances were I couldn’t fucking pay it. I was Armani without the money. Dressed to the nines with zero in my bank account.
Her eyes widened in amazement. She didn’t think I’d bite. That made two of us. But I needed this temporary arrangement. Besides, if things went my way, it would last for less than a month before Bruce would sign the damn contract and bring our fake engagement to an abrupt end.
“Uh…” She looked around, unsure. Dylan had no fucking clue what to charge, because the only work she’d ever done was bussing tables at a diner in our small town. “Like…two thousand dollars a week?”
“Deal.”
“Wait, no. Ten thousand a week!” she blurted out breathlessly.
I tapered my eyes. “Now you’re just making numbers up.”
She hitched one shoulder. “Julia Roberts charged three thousand in Pretty Woman, and I think it was less than a week. That was in 1990. Just think about the inflation.”
“Julia Roberts offered a hell of a lot more than holding hands and looking pretty,” I ground out.
“So am I, though.” Dylan licked her lips nervously, fingers twisting together. “Sex is going to be the only upside to this deal.”
“What’d you say?” I yawned to pop my ears. I must’ve been hallucinating. I really needed to tamp down that not-so-casual coke habit.
“I said, sex is on the table.”
Silence.
“Or anywhere else you’d like to have it, to be honest. I’m not picky.”
My.
Jaw.
Was.
On.
The.
Goddamn.
Floor.
“I’m sorry.” I swallowed back saliva—and possibly my fucking tongue with it. “My grasp on the English language has loosened in the past five seconds. Do you mean to tell me you want to, uh, fuck?”