Page 24 of One Sweet Lie
“Okay, noted.” I wrote that down.
“I’m also looking for a two-year commitment at the same salary, and I’ll cover the rent on your current apartment as long as you remain employed with me.”
I did the math in my head. That would give me at least seven hundred thousand dollars, not including the potential overtime.
It was more than enough to pay off my debt, get more than one piece of furniture at a time, and save for my dream bakery.
Even if I worked under the best chef in the world, I’d never make that much money as fast.
“Miss Hawthorne?” His voice cut through my thoughts. “Did you hear what I said about the commitment?”
“Yes.” I tried not to sound too excited. “Two years works for me, Mr. Dawson. Speaking of commitment though, there’s no place for me to submit my bank account.”
“The hiring agency prefers that I pay you in cash until you’ve lasted up to a certain point. Is that a problem?”
“Not at all.” I smiled. “Cash is perfect.”
“Anything else?”
“Um….” I still had plenty of reading materials and videos to finish, so I didn’t want to discuss anything else too soon. “Not that I can think of at this time.”
“Good. When are you moving in?”
“Well, that depends. When exactly would you like me to start?”
“Tonight.”
What?“I don’t know if I can get to you by then, but?—”
“I’m sending a town car to your listed address,” he said. “He’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
He hung up.
EIGHT
HARLOW
Islid from side to side on the black leather seats in Mr. Dawson’s Mercedes AMG.The moonroof hung open to give me a view of Manhattan’s tallest building, and the minibar below my feet offered top-tier champagne.
I’d never felt poorer in my life.
The closest I’d ever gotten to this car before was via a valet line when me and some fellow chefs snapped pictures with our phones.
As the driver coasted closer to Park Avenue, I ran a hand against the wood grain finishes. Under the climate control lay a stack of engraved handkerchiefs.
I picked up one and rubbed it against my cheek.
“This has to be at least five hundred thread count,” I said aloud. “Do you think Mr. Dawson would care if I kept one?”
The driver rolled his eyes and let up the partition.
When we arrived at the condo, he rolled my luggage to the elevator.
“Thanks for the ride, sir.” I took a five-dollar bill from my purse. “I’m supposed to tip you, right?”
“No, Miss,” he said. “But for future reference, that isnota tip.”
I pulled out three more dollars.