[ A N D R E A ]

Dammit. He knows my weakness. I shut the wallet, scowling, about to ask what he wants. Of course, terrible timing this time; the waiter takes the empty plates, refills his wine, and sets down our burgers.

"How are you enjoying things so far? Is the wine not to your tastes, miss? I can get another, if you'd like." he asks, gesturing to the glass.

I swallow my anger. "I'm good, thanks—it's delicious! Just..."

"She was saving the pairing for the main course, Marcel." Dante cuts in, smiling, back to his charming self. It's like I didn't see the mask slip...

Marcel laughs easily, like a trained waiter laughs, and nods, asks if we need anything else, before leaving. I shift in my seat. The burger's delicious; it tastes rich, and like meat, and the instinct inside me—shifter instinct—craves it. I lift the whole thing and take a bite.

It's smoky and gamey and fatty from the grilled lamb patty, funky and sharp from the cheese and arugula, sweet from the berry jam and onions. The bread's a neutral, fluffy canvas. It's so thick that I need to unhinge my jaw to swallow it, but I've done okay. I wipe my lips and hands with the napkin. The hot burger's satisfying in a different way than the appetizers; I already feel more like a person. More alive. More sane.

If I eat fast, I can leave quicker. So I take another bite—then stop. G-d, I look like a mess—

Dante chuckles. "They say to never eat burgers on a date. Messy. But it's a choice that shows vulnerability; y—"

"Did you think this was a date?" I cut in.

He blinks a few times. "I mean, is it not? Sure, a little business, too, but you're a cute girl and I invited you to dinner, and you accepted, so—"

"It's just a dinner between two people. It doesn't need to be weird." I mutter.

He frowns. "Huh. Your friend was right..."

What is wrong with him? "Is that what you say to your 'dates' to get their interest?" I air-quote the word, knuckles cracking.

"I've just never met someone who was so resistant to...I mean, it's just semantics. A date, dinner—"

"No. It's communication. When you go out with a person, you make your expectations clear. So this is a dinner, not a date. You said you had a business proposition that you'd pay well for. Define well before you get into what I need to do."

Dante shakes his head, raking back his hair, laughing softly to himself. He's already mostly through his burger; he nibbles on a fry. "Fine. Communication. Sorry I got ahead of myself, Andrea. How about a thousand dollars for a quick...I guess we'll call it session?"

That's a lot of money. I squint at him.

"I'm an entrepreneur. So yeah, I'm rich."

Daddy's money, I think, silently. He can see the distain in my eyes, though. But the hunger's there. A thousand bucks would be fantastic. I need that money.

"Cash?"

"Cash or direct deposit. Your pick." He shrugs.

"What do you want?"

Dante's expression brightens. He leans forward. "You said you shift into people too, right? I need you to turn into a specific woman for me—"

I snap back, eyes widening. "Okay, absolutely fucking n—"

"Hold on!" He raises his hands. "It's not what you think, okay? I'm not gonna ask you for a good time or whatever—I can tell you're not that kind of person. I just need you to turn into this specific woman to basically be some arm candy for me at this party. Nothing weird will happen—promise. Scout's honor and shit. No kissing, touching; I can't promise no flirting, though—" he smirks, and I grimace. "The woman is a friend of mine. She's currently in Italy, having a fantastic time, living her life. My family—"

"I knew you were some kind of charmer. You want to pay me to basically be an escort?"

"When you put it that way...yeah." Dante stares distantly, clearing his throat, hands still raised in peace. "And just so you know, I can—and have—charmed many women. All it takes is some genuine kindness, a disarming smile, a wink. Just be a good guy, and sure—being handsome helps. And bam. The women have to be interested too, of course; they have some agency. I just need you to become this specific woman. That's why I'm enlisting you here. I mean c'mon, Andrea; you're a fucking goldmine—"

"One—I don't doubt your conquests with love. Two, I don't give a single shit about them. Three, I've never used what I am to help other people with their selfish wishes, and I'm not planning on doing it now." I snarl. The fear creeps back into my hands. I shudder, swallow, pushing my plate away. "Shifters like me have been exploited for shit like that. Always. And I'm not going to perpetuate that, I'm not—"

"Five thousand."

Dante's expression is flat. He watches me, lips pinched, jaw clenched.

I freeze.

"The reason why I need you to turn into the woman—whose name is Bianca—is because my family still thinks I'm dating her. And they love her, and her family; and look—I come from a traditional Italian American family that thinks that once you've hit eighteen, it's time to have a wife or husband. It's...been a few years since I turned eighteen. I—"

"So it's a selfish decision."

Dante sighs, scowls. "Correct. They'll continue to help the startup funding for certain...plans of mine, if they know I'm happily dating her. If they know she's gone away and we broke up, everything falls apart."

"What the fuck?"

"Why are you so weirded out by this?"

"Do you hear yourself?" I gesture to him. "Yeah, Andrea—shift into my ex so I can please my weird, backwards family so they can continue to pour money into my financial endeavors. What a privileged place you come from...you can't just tell them that you're living your life as a bachelor or whatever? You seriously need to rope some woman into this plan, and take advantage of her own financial position, and—did you know I was a shifter? At the bar?"

Dante shakes his head, looking away. "No clue. It was pure luck; I wasn't even there for a date. I was just there to get shitfaced because my family gave me an ultimatum. I get it, I'm a spoiled rich white guy from the city, but I'm trying to help you, Andrea. At some point you need to let someone in!"

"Fuck you." I growl through gritted teeth, because I'm angry, and seriously considering this, and I'm angry that I'm seriously considering this. Things are changing—I have no savings, paycheck to paycheck, pinching every damn penny I get. My stomach churns, skin slipping across my body from anger. I can feel my scalp tingle, hair changing; I just tug it behind my ears. "Fuck you for knowing what I need, and fuck you for being in the position to help me, and—"

"Fuck me. I know." Dante nods. He's not smiling now.

"No. Fuck you for taking the end of my sentence from me." I say. Then take a few breaths. In, out. Again. "Let me see a photo of Bianca."

"Not yet. You're currently very unstable, and I don't need to be sitting across a malformed copy of my ex. Plus, Marcel was fond of her. I don't want to explain the story of how my dining partner suddenly changed into her."

I bite my tongue, then chase it with a piece of the burger bun. My stomach churns with malaise; everything I just ate has become hot sludge within me. I feel sick.

Did I accept his offers yet? No.

"I need to cool down." I fan my face, about to rise from the booth.

"Distract yourself. Focus on something. Look up at the art. You don't need to leave yet." Dante says, voice thick with his own desperation. I laugh at him now, still uneasy, but glad to have a flash of power.

"Seven and a half thousand." I offer. That anchors me.

The edge of his lip quirks up. Dante reaches a hand out, brow rising. "Oh? Is that—"

"When do you need this done?"

He chuckles. "You won't like the answer..."

"Tell me."

"Sunday."

Today is Friday. Late Friday night. I suck in a slow breath. "...This Sunday?"

Dante nods.

Again, with feeling: fuck him.

I scowl and shake his hand.

"Thank you for doing business with me, Andrea. We're going to get along just fine."