I’d wondered if we were going to talk about that. “Some, but travel requires overnight accommodations, and that’s not included in my services.”
“Your services… What exactly do your services include?”
“Are you looking to hire me?” That would never happen.
“Let’s presume you’re not selling sex and I don’t need to buy it. Deal?”
“Deal.” I pushed the plate away. “I let them take me out, buy me delicious food from fancy restaurants, pretend I’m whoever they need me to be for a few hours, so they feel good about themselves. I listen to them when they need to vent—sort of like a therapist, but totally underqualified. But we share a sort of confidentiality, so there’s no drama. They take me to concerts, operas, museums, art showings, private galas, weddings, all sorts of things.”
“And they … they pay you for this?”
I blushed, not used to openly discussing my services with anyone other than my clients. “Yes, they pay me. It’s all legit. I started with a service, but now I book my own clients. It’s not a secret. I’m not doing anything illegal.”
“So … you signed up for a service, men contact you, you agree to see them, they take you on extravagant dates, and then they pay you at the end of the night, but you never fuck them?”
I didn’t flinch at his question. It was blunt and to the point which I appreciated. I’d rather cut out all the bullshit from the start to avoid any future confusion. Because the truth was, I thought about Noah way more than I should, but I still couldn’t cross certain lines with him. Maybe we could form a sort of understanding and truce and somehow form a friendship.
“They buy me clothes and jewelry, too. But no, I never touch them.”
“I saw one guy kiss you.”
I laughed nervously. “You’re quite the stalker. I have two clients who are permitted to give me pecks on the cheek, but that’s only because I fully trust both of them not to get carried away.”
“The guy from the other night, the one who picked you up when we were talking…?”
“Which, the comb-over or the tall, dark, and—”
“Not the pig.”
Micah. “He was my first.”
“Your first…?”
“Daddy.”
A slight V formed between his brows. “Please tell me you mean sugar Daddy.”
I laughed. “Yes. It’s nothing perverted. They enjoy taking care of me, and I enjoy being taken care of.”
“How did you start? Did he come up to you and just offer you money for a date?”
“Pretty much. I was studying at a café, and he sent over a cup of coffee. I was new to the city and short on friends, so I approached him to say thank you. We ended up talking, and then we ran into each other again a week later, and he asked me out. I didn’t feel any attraction, so I turned him down.”
“Then he named a price.”
I gave him an unimpressed look. “If you’re trying to offend me, you won’t. I’m not cheap.”
“How much did he offer?”
I smiled. “Two thousand dollars.”
“For a date?”
I laughed at his shock. “Yep. And it wasn’t a crappy date.”
“No way,” he laughed. “Where’d he take you?”
“To a private concert with Elton John and only about twenty other couples.”
“Get the hell out of here! And he never tried anything?”
“Nope. He was an absolute gentleman.”
“So unfair.”
“Are you kidding? You’re a guy. No one looks at you and says, hmm, I wonder how much it would take to buy that. Women have always been pared down to buyable commodities. I’m not a prostitute, but… Never mind.” I looked at my half-eaten slice and felt sick. Maybe it was the shitty wine.
Noah’s hand closed over mine and squeezed. My gaze jumped to his as he offered what I hoped was a friendly grin.
“You’re nothing like a prostitute. I have a friend who paid her way through college by selling her eggs. Another friend of mine got college loans to pay for a boob job, never taking a single course. She’s up to her tits in debt, but she got what she wanted. People do all sorts of things to reach their goals. I think it’s sort of fascinating that you go on all those interesting dates and make money. They should pay you. I bet you’re a ton of fun when you’re not playing the bitchy neighbor. Sort of like now, your guard’s down, and we haven’t bickered once.”
I pulled my hand free. “You’ve called me a bitch a few times now.”
“I said bitchy.”
“And before?”
“I was drunk and out of line.”
“No, this was when you were trying to apologize in the hall. You were sober.”
He smiled, and something shifted as if a veil came down. “I’m sorry.”
And I had been a bitch to him, so really, I shouldn’t expect more than the apology I already received. “I’m sorry I was a bitch to you.”