CHAPTEREIGHT
Anne
I felt like my world was closing in around me. The power was off, and the curtains were closed to keep the heat out since I didn’t have any air conditioning.
I sat at the kitchen table in my dark apartment, wracking my brain about how to get out of my predicament. I was working my way through my list of job prospects, thinking maybe this time I would find someone who my father hadn’t gotten to, who also had a position open.
What was it they said about doing the same things over again and hoping for a different result? I guess I was stupid.
My stomach growled, reminding me that my refrigerator was getting bare. I pushed the papers aside and dug the heels of my palms into my eye sockets. There had to be something I could do to get myself out of the hole. Maybe I could cut my hair and sell it to a wigmaker. Or I could sell plasma.
Some universities paid people to take part in research. I could be a Guinea pig. Perhaps I could sell a few of the bracelets and earrings I made at the next farmer’s market, except I couldn’t afford to rent the table.
Maybe I could sell my eggs.
That made me think of Bran and his ridiculous offer of ten million dollars for me to be a surrogate.
“Come on, Anne. You’re smarter than this.”
I got up from my kitchen table and went to the sink, filling a glass of water, thankful that my rent payment included water.
I’d already sold most of my designer clothes and purses through online outlets. I couldn’t sell any more without leaving me with too few items to wear or a bag to carry my empty wallet in.
I was getting ready to go back to Chez Monceaux and beg for my job back when there was a knock at my door. I didn’t have very many guests except for Harper, but she usually came over in the evenings. I went to the door, looking through the peephole on the other side of it. If it was the landlord, I’d have to pretend I wasn’t home.
Fortunately, it wasn’t my landlord coming to collect the rent. It was a courier. I opened the door.
“I have a letter for a Ms. Anne Francis.”
“I’m Anne Francis.”
He shoved an electronic signing pad toward me. “Sign here.”
I signed and took the envelope from him. I shut the door, wondering who would send me a certified letter. Maybe my brother had changed his mind and was sending me a check, or maybe a few shares in the company.
Don’t get your hopes up, Anne.
I went over to the couch, sitting down, and opening the envelope. Inside was a smaller envelope with Bran Erickson’s business printed in the left-hand corner.
God, what was he sending me? I considered tearing it up, but curiosity got the best of me. I opened the envelope, pulling out a letter.
I know it would be a waste of time to think that you would meet with me on your own accord, so I’m offering you $10,000 to meet with me. Hear me out and the money is yours. If you’re game, call me.
Bran
The note ended with a phone number.
The man was crazy. But I’d be crazier to turn down $10,000 when I was on the verge of homelessness.
Yes, being around Bran was always irritating, but not so annoying that I wouldn’t do it for ten thousand dollars.
I’d be able to catch up on my rent, pay my utilities, and fill my refrigerator and cupboard with food. I even have a little left over so I could rent that table at the farmer’s market.
I could meet with him, collect the money, turn down whatever offer he was going to make, which had to be that surrogacy thing, and walk away financially solid for the next month, giving me breathing room to find a job.
I picked up my phone and called the number on the letter. As the phone rang, I braced myself to hear Bran’s voice.
I’m sure he’d be smug and rub in just how desperate I was. Then again, he must be desperate too if he was willing to pay me ten thousand dollars just to meet with him.