I want a conversation with a man who knows what a failing alternator sounds like. I want someone who looks at me and sees a woman, not a venture capital opportunity. Caleb swallowed hard. The cynicism he wore like armor felt entirely useless against her blunt honesty. He looked at her face, past the sharp haircut and the intimidating suit.
There were shadows under her eyes, a profound, quiet loneliness that resonated perfectly with his own. I have no money to take you anywhere you'd actually want to go, Caleb said. It was an admission of defeat, a quiet confession of his reality. I don't want your money, Caroline said. I have enough of my own.
I want your time. My time belongs to Maya. Then we negotiate. Caroline pulled a sleek leather checkbook from her jacket. How much is your babysitter tonight?
Stop, Caleb said, his pride flaring. I pay my own way. Don't be tedious, she said, signing a slip of paper with rapid sharp strokes. Your pride is a luxury you can't afford right now. You lost three hours tonight.
I'm reimbursing you. She slid a folded check across the table. Caleb didn't touch it. I have a meeting at 7 tomorrow morning, Caroline said standing up. The suit settled perfectly around her frame.
She looked down at him, her expression unreadable. I am going to ask you to dinner on Tuesday. I will pick the place. You will let me pay. If you hate it, you can take this check, cash it, and never speak to me again.
If you don't hate it, we'll see. She didn't wait for his answer. She turned and walked out of the restaurant, the maître d' practically bowing as she passed. Caleb sat alone in the booth for a long time. The ice in his water glass had entirely melted.
He reached across the table and picked up the folded piece of paper. He opened it. It was a check for $500. In the memo line, in sharp, elegant handwriting, it read for Maya's dinosaur fund. Tuesday at 7.
The morning sun filtered through the dusty windows of Caleb's workshop, casting long, pale beams across the concrete floor. The air was thick with the smell of cut pine, wood glue, and stale coffee. Caleb ran a piece of cherrywood through the table saw. The high-pitched scream of the blade biting into the timber drowned out the thoughts that had been racing through his head since Friday night. He had gone home, paid Mrs. Gable, and spent 20 minutes just standing in the doorway of Maya's bedroom, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest under a T-Rex blanket.
He had folded the $500 check and shoved it into the back of his sock drawer. It felt radioactive. It felt like a mistake. He was a carpenter, a dad. He bought his groceries at the discount market on Tuesdays because they marked down the meat.
Caroline Reed was a ghost from a magazine cover. He had half convinced himself that the entire interaction was a stress-induced hallucination fueled by cheap scotch. He shut off the saw. The heavy silence of the shop settled back in. Crunch.
Crunch. Tires on the gravel outside. heavy tires. Caleb wiped his hands on his canvas apron and walked toward the rolling bay doors. A black Mercedes Maybach was parked precisely between his rusted Ford and a pile of discarded shipping pallets. The engine idled silently.