Page 91 of Exposed
He nods. “I really do. But the thing here is that you’d be doing it on your own terms. No persona. Just you being you. You’d do what you did before, meet and assess each client, and come up with a treatment plan or whatever you want to call it. Teach them manners. Like, basic manners. Make them wait tables. Make them do charity work, like at a soup kitchen or something. Whatever you think necessary to enact the change in them.”
“Where would I find clients? I—I don’t even know where to start.”
He smiles at me and squeezes my hand. “I can help. It’s sort of what I do, you know. I can even float you a startup loan.”
“I need to consider.”
He nods. “Of course. It’s a big step.”
I put it out of my mind as we exit the SUV and sit down to eat. The food is delicious, of course. I let him order for me, and thus do not know the names of any of the dishes. I just know that everything is heavy in garlic, features rice and olives and lamb and chicken and thick crispy pita bread. It is flavorful and filling, but not heavy. As we eat, Logan brings the conversation back around to the idea of me starting my own business.
“One thing I’d say for sure is that you wouldn’t work out of your home. You need a separation of work and home. Unless you’re, like, a computer programmer or something, you need your own space that’s just for you. Especially in the line of business you’re considering. You can’t have clients coming and going from your living room. That just invites familiarity, and you need to remain aloof. Untouchable. Imposing. The atmosphere would still have to seem informal, comfortable, but separate from your personal space.” He shovels a few forkfuls of rice into his mouth and then stabs a green olive, gesturing with the fork and the olive. “I think—I think...” He eats the olive, and I’m noticing that the more he discusses this, the more effusive he becomes. It’s endearing and adorable and inspiring, seeing his excitement over this idea. It’s contagious. “I think if you bought a town house kind of like mine, we could renovate it to suit your needs. Make a front room, a deep comfortable leather couch, a little kitchenette and bar, a bay window overlooking the street. And then make a separate entrance leading to your space, which would take up the rest of the house, use both upper and lower levels. Maybe make the bedroom a loft over the rest. Keep it open, you know? The door to your space would need to be really secure, though, maybe use biometrics. Thumbprints and whatever, right?”
I interrupt his flow. “Logan. This all sounds wonderful, but...” I cannot help a sigh of defeat. “I don’t have a single dime to my name. I don’t own a single article of clothing of my own.Nothing. Where am I going to get the money to buy a town house in Manhattan, much less capital to open a business?”
He waves my objection away with his fork. “Told you, I’ll help you out. Run you a business loan.”
“I’m not taking your money, Logan. That would only—”
He sets his fork down, his gaze serious. “I didn’t say ‘give,’ Isabel, I said ‘loan.’ I’ll have my banker work up the paperwork for you. I know you wouldn’t take money from me, and that’s not what I’m offering. I’d have no stake in your business itself, other than the hope that you’re profitable so I see a return on my investment. I’m not looking to make a profit myself off this, so the terms would be pretty forgiving, low interest, make it easy for you to pay it off. This is to help you. Get you started.”
“Why, Logan?”
He makes a funny face. Sad, tender, loving, and confused all at once. “Because everyone needs help sometimes. And because I love you. I want to help you. I’d just give you the damn money if I thought you’d take it. I have more than I’ll ever be able to spend, even with giving a shitload away to charity. I want to see you succeed. I want to...” He sighs and leans back in his chair. “There’s selfish motivation at work here, too. If you’re successful, if you’re working for yourself, then you’re more likely to be happy. And if you’re happy, that just means things between us will be that much better.”
I can’t help a smile. “So even your selfish motivations are centered on my happiness?”
A grin. “Well, yeah. I mean, think about it. If you’re happy, then your focus can be on me. If you’re happy, my chances of being able to keep you naked in my bed for entire weekends are that much better. And after last night and this morning, Isabel honey, I’ve got plans to keep you naked and sweaty for as long as you’ll let me.”
“I like the sound of those plans.”
His eyes heat up. “We could buy a little place in the Caribbean, stay naked on the beach for weeks on end.”
I close my eyes and dream. Pretend I’m successful. Making my own money running my own business. Logan is mine, all mine. There is no one else. I imagine being on a beach somewhere. With him. Lying naked on a blanket in the sand, the sun hot above us. His mouth all over me. I squirm, desire flushing through me at the idea.
“You’re picturing it, aren’t you?” He’s leaning toward me over the table, whispering in my ear. “You and me, naked on a beach?”
“Yes,” I breathe.
“Picture it, babe. Keep that image in your mind. We’ll make it a reality.”
There are a few moments of silence then, as we finish our food. My mind wanders, back to his bedroom, to us. To him, asleep on the couch. The notepad, the scribblings.
“Logan?” I have to know. I have to ask.
He glances up, eyebrows lifted in query. “Hmmm?”
“Who is Jakob Kasparek?”
He freezes. “You saw that.”
“Yeah. I saw. What did that note mean, Logan?”
He chews, swallows, breathes. “I did a little more digging. I managed to get a peek at the discharge papers from the hospital. The signature on your discharge sheet is Jakob Kasparek.”
“Not Caleb Indigo?”
He shakes his head. “No. Jakob Kasparek.” A lift of his shoulder. “I looked for that name, but I found nothing. Not a single thing. So I don’t know anything except that whoever signed you out of the hospital was named Jakob Kasparek, not Caleb Indigo.”