Dean stared at her. "What?" I'm still on the board. I still have the portfolio, but I'm no longer running the company." She looked at the scattered files on the desk, then up into Dean's eyes.
"I spent 10 years building a machine that runs perfectly well without me. I realized I don't want to be a ghost haunting a glass tower. I want to exist somewhere real." "This isn't real for you, Clare." Dean said, his voice a low, gravelly scrape.
"You can play mechanic secretary for a month, but when the boiler breaks or the roof caves in, you know you can just write a check to fix it. We don't live in the same world." "Then we bridge the gap!" Clare fired back, stepping closer. The corporate ice was gone.
She was pleading, but with the fierce combative energy of a fighter. "I'm not here to write a check, Dean. I didn't buy your building. I didn't pay off your loans. I left the debt right where it is so you can pay it off yourself.
I am not here to save you." Dean looked at her, the heavy defensive posture slowly draining from his shoulders. "Then why are you here?" Clare reached out. She didn't touch his face.
She grabbed his hand, her clean fingers wrapped around his calloused, grease-stained knuckles. "You said you didn't need an employee," Clare said quietly, holding his gaze. "You said you needed a partner, someone to pull the weight, someone to give a damn." Dean looked down at their joined hands. The contrast was stark, ridiculous, and completely perfect.
The anger that had been keeping him warm for the last month finally evaporated, leaving behind a profound, exhausting relief. Before he could answer, a small, heavily stained pair of denim overalls rounded the corner from the bays. Sam skidded to a halt, looking at Clare. "You left your red pen," Sam stated. She looked down at her own feet.
She was wearing her worn sneakers. The laces were tied in perfect tight knots. "I didn't forget how to do the loops." Clare looked down at the little girl, a genuine, completely uncalculated smile breaking across her face. "I can see that.
Highly efficient work, Sam." Clare looked back up at Dean. He wasn't glaring anymore. The heavy bags under his eyes were still there, but the permanent grimace was gone.
He squeezed her hand, his thumb brushing against her clean skin, deliberately smudging a small streak of motor oil across her knuckle. "$20 an hour," Dean said softly. "Cash on Fridays, and you're buying the grilled cheese." "Net 30," Clare whispered back. "And I'm keeping the desk."