“A lot.” Davis fills in the sentence with a sigh, the kind of ennui that only rich boys dare to reveal so shamelessly.
“Yes, but I was going to say that it’s lovely. How long have you lived here?”
“Since I was twenty-four? My dad bought it decades ago, but he’s usually in Boston so I’ve taken over.” He motions for me to follow him through the sitting area. “Kieran crashes here every once in a while when he’s in the city, but he prefers to stay out west.”
I cringe involuntarily at the mention of Kieran’s name, but I don’t say anything. I simply follow Davis down a wainscoted hallway until we turn into a kitchen, which is as elegant and classically designed as the main part of the apartment.
“Sit,” he directs, gesturing to a round mahogany dining table with four matching chairs. Once again, it’s all mysterious, ornate elegance—the kind that doesn’t even exist in knock-off form because it would be too costly to imitate cheaply.
I sit, as instructed, feeling reticent to touch anything in Davis’s opulent home. My hands stay on my thighs, shifting with discomfort while he busies himself at the refrigerator. Moments later, he puts a glass of water and a plate of cut fruit in front of me: strawberries, blueberries, peach slices, and kiwis.
“My sister, Julia, stayed here last summer when she was working in the city, but we didn’t see much of each other since I was at the office so much,” he mentions as he situates the plate. “She said the apartment looks like a drunk wizard decorated it.”
“I didn’t know that you had a sister.”
He nods. “She and Kieran are twins, but Julia’s more…” He sways his head side to side a couple of times before he settles on saying, “Julia’s a lot more meteoric than Kieran.”
“Is that possible?” I practically blurt out.
Davis slides into the seat across from me with a glass of water in one hand and a laptop in the other. “You have no idea,” he responds, and his answer makes me feel as though this is a topic of ongoing aggravation in Davis’s life. “Anyway, eat some of that.” He reaches out and grabs a peach slice. “We have work to do and I want you sharp for this.”
“M&A work?”
“We need to hash out a contract.” He takes another peace slice and bites into it, which makes a small drop of juice push out onto his lip. With complete sexual obliviousness, he licks his lower lip. “Seriously, eat. Don’t make me ask again. I have no interest in being your daddy.”
That simple sentence catches me so off guard that I can’t stop my eyebrows from shooting sky high. Somehow, amid the last five minutes’ brief apartment tour and small talk about Davis’s brother and sister, I completely forgot that I was here to provide a service.
I quickly grab some blueberries, both to placate Davis and to give my face something else to do other than gape at him. “Why do we need a contract?”
“Well, for one: If I teach you anything this summer, it’s that the heart of all good deals is a rock-solid contract that protects you and ensures that you get what you want and what you’re owed. Do you think we acquire companies without intense legal review of the terms of the sale and an equally thorough due diligence process?”
“Oh, I just assumed you threw a fat wad of cash at the CEO and called it a day.”
“That only works on you, beautiful,” he replies as he glances up, smirking coolly.
“Bite me.”
“If that’s what you want, make sure it gets into the contract,” Davis counters without missing a beat.
I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly annoyed that I bothered dressing like such a slut for him. If I knew that we were going to be doing paperwork, I would have worn an outfit that wasn’t so generous with my boobs. “So, is this the part where you go through all the sordid things you want to do to me and tell me how much you’ll pay me for each one?”
“A la carte? Please, Olivia. We’re obviously doing a prix fixe.” He opens his laptop, keeping his eyes on me as he waits for sleep mode to switch off. “My terms are simple: ten thousand dollars a week to be paid every week by no later than noon on Saturday directly to your bank account.”
“So, we’ll do it every Saturday?”
“Not necessarily. My schedule can be unpredictable, so I may be out of town. If we have to fuck on a Wednesday night, so be it.”
In other words, Saturday is payday.
I nod as if I’m considering his words and deciding if I’ll accept those terms—those brilliant, lucrative terms that get me ten grand a week, which would take me fifteen years to get legally if I kept working at Davenport-Ridgeway. No shit I’m content with the terms. “Fine. Do we only do it once a week?”
“Hell no,” Davis replies, tightening his face into a deep frown. “It’s whenever we’re both free.”
“Wait, so am I allowing you to have me whenever you want, wherever you want?” I clarify abruptly.
“To an extent, yes,” he confirms with a nonchalant shoulder raise. “But keep in mind, I’m a busy man.”
“Yeah, busy and important—I’ve heard.”
He shoots me a somber glance, a sure sign that he didn’t appreciate the sass.
“I’ll pay you regardless. Some weeks we may do it a lot. Other weeks, you may not even see me. What’s important to me is that I can access you whenever I want.”
“Not during work hours,” I object.
“You sure about that?” Davis leans back in his seat and cants his head thoughtfully. “You have no interest in me fucking you up against the wall of my big, private office? Maybe against one of the windows, where anyone in a neighboring building could see us?”
My breath hitches at the thought because my lungs are damn traitors. Davis clearly notices this and clearly enjoys it because he quickly masks a chuckle. I find myself saying, “Fine. But if I have a meeting or work to do, I have the right to decline.”
“Fair enough.” Davis turns and types on his laptop. “Now that we’ve settled pay amount, pay schedule, and frequency, let’s talk about confidentiality. We speak of this to nobody—is that understood?”
“You think I’m proud of this?” I ask the question before I can manage my tone, and it comes out much heavier than I intended.
Davis lifts an eyebrow. “I think you could screw up my career and my company if this gets out. You know that, right?”
I waver as the gravity of what he’s saying settles on me: I hold far more power than he does in this regard. “I wouldn’t do that.”
He bows forward and asks me, “And if a gossip website or a rival company offered you half a million dollars to tell your story, what would you do?”
“I’d text you and tell you that you owe me half a million dollars.”
Davis offers me a slow nod. “Good girl. So, I’m putting a note in here that neither of us will share the details of this contract and agreement, and if suspicious minds offer you financial compensation for the story, you’ll give me the chance to buy your silence.”
“Deal.”