Chapter 3
“Why do I have to interview this guy?” I complained to my best friend Rowan, who managed the Greenhill Rescue Society Weekly Gazette.
Rowan was tall and chic with sculptured cheekbones and short platinum blonde hair that lay in exquisite waves on their forehead.
“Because, darling, you have to try to get some money out of this guy,” they said.
“Why do I have to do it?” I protested, shoving my beat-up sneakers up on my battered old desk in the tiny office. “Why can’t you? You’re a model. You know how to talk to these privileged rich people.”
I put lunch (a gas station hot dog and a can of cheap beer) on the desk.
This interview had to go well. Because the Rescue Society was dangerously low on funds. I was having to dig into my own savings to keep our big cat rescue open, and the sanctuary for elderly dogs and cats was in desperate need of funds as well.
“But darling, you have the look these privileged rich guys want,” Rowan said cunningly.
My jaw dropped, a piece of hot dog falling out of my mouth and onto my raggedy jean shorts.
“I do? You must be shitting me.”
“You can if you do what I say,” they retorted tartly.
Since the magazine office also shared space with an accounting firm and the local theater department wardrobe, Rowan moved to the shared closet and pulled out some outfits from a recent I Love Lucy theater production.
“With a few tucks in here and there, I could make this work,” Rowan said eagerly, kneeling beside me with pins in their mouth and scissors between their fingers. “You’ll look like a perfect little tradwife.”
Rowan was a magician with anything related to fashion, and had made their own clothes since high school, but I couldn’t see this plan working.
Reluctantly, I agreed to try on a navy dress with a big, old-fashioned Peter Pan collar.
“He’s not going to buy this!” I said, laughing. “I have a belly button ring and a tramp stamp. I do not look like anybody’s idea of a tradwife. I look like a broke-ass English major. Which I am.”
“Darling, men will buy anything,” Rowan laughed. “And you look divine. Think of the Rescue Society! We’re desperately in need of money. Take out that nose ring, though.”
“And you really think he’s more likely to give us funding?”
“I am absolutely convinced he will,” Rowan said firmly. “Don’t act like yourself.”
At this, we both laughed so hard tears streamed down our cheeks.
I agreed to the ruse.
What other choice did we have?
Rowan wiped off my usual makeup (slutty), and gave me an understated, subtle look, then completed the outfit with two little lacy gloves and tiny peep-toe heels.
“And, the piece-de-resistance,” they said, brandishing a plate of steaming hot cookies in front of him. “From the coffee shop downstairs.”
“What the fuck?” I cried. “What the hell am I supposed to do with these?”
“Tell him you baked them yourself,” Rowan laughed. “He’ll eat it the fuck up.”
Despite my misgivings, I made my way down to the Capitol Building for the interview and waited for what felt like forever in front of his greasy secretary. Finally, I was led down a long hall to the door of his office.
“Come in. You can have five minutes,” came a low, gravelly voice.
Asshole, I thought, but I followed his instructions and walked to the open chair, my eyes cast down demurely.
Governor Di Pietro sat at his desk, which was organized with mathematical precision, each stack of paper, each electronic device, at an exact forty-five degree angle from the other.
“Yes, sir,” I said, bringing out the plate of cookies and holding them in front of me.
Oh, this asshole was never going to agree to increase funding or give one fuck about animal rescue, so it didn’t matter that I was going to lay it on so thick it was obvious I was faking it.
“I thought you might like a cherry blossom matcha cookie,” I said in a sugary-sweet voice. “Or maybe an old-fashioned mint chocolate chip.”
Oh, that got his attention, all right.
“You brought me cookies?”
“I thought you might be hungry,” I said winningly, looking down modestly, then up through my lashes at him. “It’s good for important men like yourself to have a little sweet treat.”
“It is, isn’t it,” he agreed.
Up close, Governor Di Pietro was a big, powerful man with thick waves of dark hair and a touch of silver in it, one silvery-black lock falling over his forehead.
His eyes were dark and his face harsh. Obviously some people found him handsome, but he had an unnecessarily cocky arrogance that I could guarantee wasn’t actually backed up with his performance in bed.
“Tell me all about your animal rescue group,” the Governor said.
Wait, was this guy buying my act? I couldn’t believe it.
He listened with an uncomfortably penetrating gaze, his big hands motionless on the dark table.
I felt flustered, mixed up one of the statistics, stumbling over my words.
What if he didn’t believe me that the animal rescue desperately needed funding? This guy didn’t look like he gave a fuck about anything but money.
“I—I hope that made sense,” I fake-confessed. “I’m so nervous! I just don’t have much experience with men,” I lied, clasping my white-gloved hands in my lap.
To my surprise, he waved aside my objection. “It did make sense. You’re very convincing.”
This wasn’t too much? He was buying all this shit?
“In fact, I don’t have any experience with men. So I’m sorry—if anything I say is awkward. I do apologize.”
But Silas was actually smiling at me, with his white, gleaming predator’s teeth.
“Of course not. I don’t find you awkward at all. In fact, I think you’re very charming.”
“Oh!” I said. “I’m just a simple girl, really. I have a degree in English but really my passion is for animal rescue.”
Silas stood up, moving to a side table and pouring me a cup of coffee.
“Tell me more,” he rumbled as he set the cup, saucer, and a couple of creamers in front of me. “I want to hear all about the Greenhill Rescue Society.”
Although I wanted to tear this unbearably itchy pantyhose off my body, I took a prim little sip, watching as his harsh eyes dragged down my body at my every move.
That watch on his wrist was encrusted with diamonds, and here I was begging this sick fuck for a crumb of money that would go to endangered animals.
But I did tell him all about the rescue, modulating my voice so it was quiet, shy, and sweet.
And he didn’t cut off the interview at five minutes. Or ten minutes. And at twenty-five minutes he asked me out to dinner.
And we’d been together ever since, me beside this dickhead every step of the way.
I was only irritated I hadn’t caught him sooner. All those lovely months I could have been out fucking other men.
We should have been able to split with no fuss at all. He was a dirty cheater, I was the wronged wife.
Somehow Silas was hanging on like a fat tick. But just wait, you bastard. . .