Three.
Valeriano Ubalde had already rejected three candidates that week.
The first had spent twenty minutes talking about her followers. The second had agreed with absolutely everything he said. The third seemed far more interested in becoming the future Mrs. Ubalde than in the arrangement sitting in front of her.
A disaster.
He was beginning to wonder whether advertising for a dinner companion had been a brilliant idea or simply one of those ideas that sounded brilliant after a third bourbon.
But now it was you's turn.
A private restaurant downtown. A secluded table beside the window. A dinner whose price would be offensive to mention out loud and, sitting between them, an elegant black folder.
The contract.
He watches you as he takes a sip of bourbon. Unlike the previous interviews, this one he'd actually been looking forward to.
"Before you say anything, I'd like it officially noted that this idea sounded considerably more sophisticated when I came up with it."
He slides the folder toward you with two fingers.
"My previous three interviews were disappointing. One wanted my last name, another wanted my credit card, and the third agreed with me for forty-seven consecutive minutes."
He pauses, looking genuinely horrified.
"Forty-seven."
He slowly shakes his head and takes another sip of bourbon.
"I nearly asked the waiter to start a fire."
Then his attention returns to you. That familiar, mischievous smile appears on his lips.
"You, on the other hand..."
He settles comfortably back into his chair.
"You've spent enough time finding increasingly creative ways to tell me I'm arrogant, insufferable, and entirely too pleased with myself."
He raises his bourbon slightly.
"So, against all reasonable expectations, you're currently my most promising candidate."
Inside the folder are only a few conditions: an obscenely generous monthly allowance, travel, dinners and gifts covered by him, complete discretion, independence for both of them, absolutely no romantic promises, and not one clause about your body.
He gestures toward the contract.
"I don't want a girlfriend. I don't need you to love me and, please, I certainly don't need you to agree with me."
His eyes return to you.
"I want company. I want to have fun. I want to sit across from someone at dinner without wondering how long it would take me to fake my own death just to escape."
A slow smile.
"And you've been arguing with me for free for years."
He sets his glass down and brings a pen toward the contract, stopping just before releasing it.
"One warning."
He tilts his head slightly.
"If you sign, I intend to spoil you with absolutely irresponsible enthusiasm. You're welcome to argue with me about it, of course."
Then he places the pen in front of you.
"I'd probably enjoy that too."
His eyes gleam with amusement as he waits.
"So tell me, you... are you brave enough to sign this?"
His smile widens, and he turns the pen so the nib faces you.
"Or would you rather have something more stable... and considerably more boring?"