The Alpha's False Mate

CHAPTER 7: Lavine's Offer

Like a stray cat with her gaze on the ground, Cloette treads the sidewalk of arrays of commercial buildings. I rest my foot on the brake and let the idling speed of the engine move my Ferrari, breaking as necessary to control the speed. At one point, the vehicles behind me are beeping their horns but that doesn’t make me drive any faster. Mimicking Cloette’s pace is my priority so I won’t lose her from my sight. The heat of the blazing sun that bathes everything underneath it slows Cloette's movement even more. She keeps drying her sweaty forehead with her handkerchief and wetting her plump lips with her tongue. About a kilometer from the Golden Empire Hotel are a series of cheap fast food chains and luxury restaurants. I pull up my car in the parking space shared by these establishments when Cloette enters a donut chain. I then slant my view to my wrist watch which reads three minutes past noon.

“Seriously? Donut for lunch?” I chortle.

Initially, I only planned to tail her for reasons I couldn’t spell out but on second thought, it’s best to talk to her and refrain from looking like a stalker. I get out of my car and make my way towards the donut chain. The sweet scents from honey, chocolate, strawberry and coffee burst in the air the instant I open the door. Werewolves have a sense of smell a hundred times far greater than humans. This high level of scent recognition is both a gift and a curse. In this situation, it’s indisputably a curse. It’s tingling my nose as if hundreds of pins and needles are puncturing it at the same time. I unwrinkle my face and take a step back when Cloette occupies the corner most part of the area, facing my direction. She’s at the farthest wall away from the counter, perhaps the reason why she doesn’t see me. Confusion writhes through my brain when instead of a tray of a donut and a drink, a woman in an apron delivers her a pen and some papers before sitting down opposite to her. Cloette’s smile doesn’t falter the moment the woman introduces herself to her. Her shoulders are set back and her eyes unveils excitement. In anticipation of being seen by her, I take off my wallet from my fitted slacks' pocket, withdraw a one thousand peso bill, place it on the counter then randomly take a magazine from a rack.

“Mister,” the cashier calls.

I hush her by placing my index finger in front of my mouth. She presses her lips together while wiggling the one thousand peso in her hand.

I whisper, “Keep the change.”

She gawks with her mouth open. Uninterested with whatever she’s gonna do with the money, I deflect my attention from her and avert it to Cloette and the woman with her. I take a seat, a couple of tables across from them. In that way, the woman whom she’s talking to, as well as several other diners, would be blocking me from her line of sight. It’s not my intention to hide but I don’t wanna distract her in whatever she’s doing. I turn a page of the magazine and pretend to read, when in fact, I'm only using it to cover half of my face. Thanks to my acute hearing, I’m able to distinguish her words and voice from the others who are speaking about senseless things all at once.

“Tell me something about yourself,” the woman says.

Cloette clears her throat first then responds, “I’m Cloette Gil, 21 years old, undergraduate of Bachelor of Science in Tourism Management and I’m currently working at the Golden Empire Hotel as a room attendant.”

The next flow of their conversation is inessential for me to focus on. This is probably the most unconventional job interview there is. They don’t even offer their applicant a separate room from the diners and the questions being asked are mediocre at best. Nonetheless, my companies might be able to copy this kind of job interview in the future. It doesn’t look unprofessional after all, and it seems effortless too.

Approximately fifteen minutes after arriving here, the interview is closing to its end. The final statement of the interviewer takes the edge off Cloette’s delight. Her posture slouches and so do the corners of her lips.

“I’m looking forward to your decision. Please let me know by tomorrow so that I can tell the owner and give you one of the few remaining vacancies we have available,” the woman says.

Cloette is speechless. It’s evident that she can’t give up the job she has at my hotel. She needs a secondary source of income but what the lady is offering, is another job that’ll only give her less of what she’s currently earning. A tiny dismay at her reaction pinches me. Her defeated expression jogs my memory to her words the last time we’re in my suite, ‘I thought someone is willing to tread the water to save me from drowning’. Guilt streams to my blood again. I lower my gaze to the magazine then toss it on the table. The next time I redirect my eyes to Cloette, she’s shaking the woman’s hand while professing the fakest and saddest smile I’ve ever seen one can pull off. I rise from the chair and, this time, purposely appears in front of her. Like earlier, she’s staring down so there’s no chance she could see me coming. As she walks towards the exit door, I let her bump her forehead on my chest which causes her to accidentally drop the papers on the floor.

“Sorry about that,” she says, still looking at the floor.

She crouches down and picks up the papers. Immediately after standing up, she glances at me then to the papers in her hands then to me again. Her tired eyes widen while her lips part.

“Have you had your lunch?” I ask.

She closes her parted lips and it takes some time before she gently shakes her head in response.

“Cool,” I say, which takes her aback. “I’m on break. It’s my treat.”

She pulls out her gaze from mine and tucks the now crumpled papers into her tattered shoulder bag, attempting to ignore me again.

I draw out an inaudible long breath then add, “Consider my offer as a job interview.”

She lifts her face, high enough for me to see it but low enough not to meet my gaze.

“So, deal or no deal?”

Finally! She directs her eyes to mine. Curls on her lips flare her once gloomy aura. She replies,

“Alright. Thanks.”

For the first time today, a smile crosses my face, a genuine one that even my father failed to see. Relief deluges in my chest as I lead our way out of the donut chain.

“Where do you wanna eat?” I ask.

“Anywhere.”

Though her responses are brief, her tone is sufficient in letting me know that she’s delighted. Her movements are loose and relax but what I notice the most is her reddening cheeks. Not sure if it’s because of the heat from the simmering atmosphere or from her new-found opportunity. Apart from that, I also catch her smiling from time to time and that smile broadens when we enter a French Restaurant, a few feet from the donut chain.

“Table for two, please,” I say to one of the waiters while handing him my membership card.

After verifying the validity of my card through his computer screen, he returns the card to me then escorts us to one of the tables on the second floor. I pull one of the Bergère chairs and gesture for Cloette to sit on it. Once she’s comfortably seated, I walk towards the other side of the round table to occupy the other chair.

“Order whatever you like,” I say.

“I will. Thank you.”

Cloette flips the menu. Her eyes are glued on it for a while so I precede her from ordering.

“One Salade de Chèvre Chaud for entrée, one Blanquette de Veau for main and a bottle of Chateau Lafite.”

Both the waiter and I turn to Cloette. She folds the menu close and lays it on the table. In a meek voice, she says, “I’ll order what you ordered, just replace the wine with water.”

I nod to the waiter and don't waste a second asking Cloette some questions once we’re left alone.

“So, what kind of job do you expect to get from me?”

“Anything. As long as I could get another job aside from the one I have in the hotel, that’d be awesome.”

I bob my head, already thinking what task would best fit her without sacrificing the other. “If you get two jobs, can you commit to both? What I mean is, can you deliver a quality of service, understanding full well how draining having two jobs could be?”

“I’ve been through worse. Working two jobs in a day for five or six days a week won’t kill me.”

Again, I bob my head, only this time, for appreciating her determination.

“I can’t really think of any job to give you, really. Tell me what else you can do so I’d know what to offer you.”

Eagerly, she answers, “I can cook.”

I stare at her with my eyebrows pressed low. This evokes an explanation from her.

“I’m not a professional chef but I have a little background in culinary, particularly Southeast Asian cuisines. I can be your personal…”

I discontinue her sentence by raising my hand. She bites her lower lip when realizing that what she’s asking for isn’t negotiable. I lean on the backrest of the Bergère chair then cross my legs while evaluating Cloette.

“I won’t give you any job that’ll require you to work near me.”

She forces a smile to gloss over the fact that she’s hurt at my refusal.

“How about you work at my hotel’s kitchen as an assistant to the chefs?”

She transfers her fidgeting hands from the table to her lap then asks, “Will my salary be enough to pay my father’s bill?”

I couldn’t help but sigh in disbelief. She’s asking for too much and perhaps this bargaining wouldn’t end the way we both wanted it to.

“What made you think that being a service crew in a donut chain would make you earn hundreds of thousands, millions even?”

“I don’t,” she responds firmly, then she softens her tone and adds, “I was planning to get four jobs in a week.”

She shakes her head from side to side while quietly chuckling which makes my eyebrows tighten even more. Her eyes keep switching between me and her hands on her lap as she speaks.

“It’s my fault, I’m sorry. I’m too obnoxious to think that since you paid my father’s bill before, then you could do it again. I was planning to work directly with you and instead of an actual salary that’ll be sent to my bank account, I-uhm… I’d like to ask if it’s possible to…”

She stops, exploring for something to say next. I take the chance to seal the deal by saying,

“It’s not possible.”

She let slip another humorless chuckle before countering, “When desperation clutches me by the neck, you’re the only person I could think of who might help without harming me.” She pauses and when she continues, her tone becomes warmer. “I’d completely respect it if you decline my excessive request.”

“It really is excessive. I can’t give it to you,” I say, lacking the ability to mince my words. “The position to be a chef’s assistant is still available for you. Take a rest tonight and consider that offer thoroughly.”

I lose count on how many times she fakes a positive facade, but she does it again, hiding all the pain and anxiety of being deprived from the one thing she miserably wants to cling to so tight - money, huge sums of money. My kindness has limitations and I don’t think I could ever go beyond those limitations, especially for someone whom I just met. Silence blankets the cumbersome situation which is fleetingly dulled when the waiter returns with a tray of our meals in one arm. Once the waiter leaves again, that silence becomes even more blaring than before. None of us speaks. The only things I hear are murmurs from the other customers, the clanking and clinking of the utensils against the ceramic plates and bowls as we dig into our foods. My eyes unintentionally angles to Cloette while I swirl the cabernet of red wine in my hand. My heart falls headlong to my stomach at her sight. I grip the cabernet tighter while another flood of guilt flows through me. She’s devouring big bite after big bite of her food as if she’s never had a meal for a long time. Her hands quiver every time they clutch the utensils and her thin cheeks faten momentarily. After gulping the entire glass of water, she shoves more food to her mouth once more. She’s short of the care in the world on how she looks now and just desires to fill her, I suppose, empty stomach. I push my plate of salad and my bowl of stew close to her and say,

“I’m not hungry, you can have mine too.”

She stares at me but looks away when tears well in the corners of her eyes. I look away too, steadying the heightening sympathy I’m feeling for her. I try to flush it down by sipping the red luscious silky wine from the cabernet more frequently than I'd usually do.

“Thank you,” she whispers. “I’ll never forget everything you did for me. Since my father’s accident, nobody has extended a hand to me except you. I’m beyond words on how grateful I am.”

Her remarks are as perceptive as her innocent yet battered existence. My toughness about my kindness’ limitations yields faster than the blink of an eye. Once I empty the wine in my cabernet, I say with the slightest bit of reluctance,

“Don’t finish your shift today. We need to discuss some things.”