She wasn’t sure why she said, “Fine, you’re hired.” She tried to tell herself it had everything to do with the fact that she was desperate and nothing to do with the fact that William Giles, the man who called himself Spike of all things, was incredibly gorgeous. God-like gorgeous. He was also arrogant and temperamental. Not that she was much better on the temper front. Now, he was smiling like the cat that got the canary and she had the urge to take it back. However that would mean not learning anything about him and something about him most definitely intrigued her. Like, why he chose her business to apply for work for one, and where he came from, and that stupid nickname.
“So, what would you like to know kitten?” he asked, tucking his tongue behind his front teeth in a gesture that Buffy found both sexy and infuriating.
“Got a license?” she asked, holding out her hand.
His grin faded. “No.”
Weird. Even the losers she’d dated that didn’t have a car had a license. “Why not?”
He shrugged. “Cause I don’t.”
“Are you an illegal alien?” she narrowed her eyes.
“I’m not an alien!” he sounded horrendously insulted.
“Then why—never mind. Do you have any forms of identification?”
“For what?”
“So I can pay you?” she couldn’t help but retort condescendingly.
“I’ll have what you need by the end of the week,” he grumbled.
“Do you drive at all?”
He grinned rakishly, “Depends on your meanin’.”
“You’re a pig. If you’re here to match yourself then you can waltz yourself right out that door.” She pointed to the exit/entrance for emphasis.
“I’m not here for that. I’m here to help you.”
“Fine then, let me show you around.” She strolled to the back of the room, into the consulting room and pushed aside the scarves and beads that made the door. Inside was a bar and a small table with two chairs in the middle of the room, and against the wall was a couch, a recliner, and a bookcase.
“What is this all about?” Spike asked, raising his eyebrows.
“I find it helps to create a date like atmosphere. The couch and recliner with the books for those who are more comfortable in a café slash bookstore type of setting, and the table and chairs and bar for those that prefer clubs and that sort of thing. I find when you bring someone closer to the element they’re more comfortable in in the dating world, they get into that mindset and it helps me peg them and their mate,” Buffy explained. “We don’t serve alcohol. It’s all non-alcoholic and nothing fancy. I only do appointments, so I’ll find out what they prefer before coming in and make it. There is also coffee and a cappuccino machine behind the bar.”
She was pleased to note the impressed expression on his face. “Your job will be to help me prepare for a client. Help me ‘set the mood’ so to speak. Also, your job is to set up appointments for me.”
“So I’m a glorified receptionist now,” he said dryly.
She put her hands on her hips. “You can’t just expect to jump in and start matching people.”
“Why not? I bet I’d be good at it.”
“Have you ever done it?”
“Well, no.”
“Then how do you know?”
“I’ve got connections,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Connections to people who make matches aren’t going to help you make the correct matches.”
“What’s your secret then? How do you do it?”
Buffy took a deep breath. “I talk to them; I ask them questions about themselves, like an interview. Or, like a date without, you know, coming onto them. I get a feel for the kind of person they are, what they like, what they don’t like, what makes them the most comfortable, what turns them off. I get a feel for their personality and then have them set up a profile that you will later put in the computer. The computer spits out some matches for that person and then I personally go over the list and choose the one that I think will make the best match. If they choose the one I picked for them, I pay for the date. If they choose not to, I set up the date, but do not pay for it. The bill is forwarded to them at their residence so no one is the wiser as to if they were ‘The One’ I chose.”
“Smart,” he said appreciatively.
“And sometimes there are cases in which the computer spits out matches, but I don’t feel that any of them are ‘The One’. So, I go back into the archives and choose the one I feel is correct.”
“And that’s been failing you lately?”
“You seem awfully keen on insulting me. And how do you even know I’ve been ‘failing’ huh? Are you seeking revenge for a friend or something? What’s your deal?”
He smiled cordially. “I just want to help.”
“Then maybe you can stop with the judgment,” and she started for the ‘door’.
“I’m not judging you, Elizabeth—“ he said, almost apologetically as he followed her.
“Buffy,” she corrected him, turning to face him.
“Excuse me?”
“Everyone calls me Buffy.”
His lips twitched. “Cute.”
“Thanks,” she said dryly.
“Look, I’m sorry if it seems like I’m judging you. I just heard a lot of good things about this place and your abilities. I’ve also heard that you’ve hit a rough spot.”
“I’m sure I’ll be back on track in no time,” she told him, straightening. Her tone lacked certainty. In fact it sounded more like a question.
“Burnt out?” he suggested?
“Shouldn’t I be the one asking the questions considering I’m your employer and I still don’t know anything about you?” she asked, tapping her foot and crossing her arms across her chest in a thoroughly defensive manner.
He held out his arms. “I’ve given you free reign to ask me anything, kitten.”
“I’m not a ‘kitten’.”
He leaned closer, smirking. “How bout tigress?”
She took a step back. “No,” she said shaking her head.
“Lioness?”
“N—Actually, I like that,” she said wagging a finger.
He knew she’d like that. His little lioness, all feisty and fiery, not to mention deadly, he was sure. Just not sure if that’s deadly in a good way or a bad way . . . Is there a good way to be deadly? Images of Buffy in a red teddy-- or maybe pink, halfway between innocent and not-so-innocent-- sprang to mind and, Yeah, she could be deadly.
“You have a boyfriend, my little lioness?” Gods help him, he couldn’t wipe the stupid grin off his face.
“Okay, but I’m not your lioness.”
“I chose the name, I get to call you it, with possession attached.”
She sighed and rolled her eyes, “You’re exhausting. Do you have a girlfriend?”
“What are you trying to say?”
“That any girl that gets involved with you must be worn out from having to deal with you,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Oh, they get worn out all right. Most deliciously,” and he waggled his eyebrows.
She walked away, quite suddenly and without warning.
“You never answered me. You have a boyfriend?”
“What business is it of yours?” she snapped.
“Just wondering how a beautiful woman such as yourself can run a place like this and do what you do without getting hit on left and right.”
“Well, you’d be surprised how much I don’t get hit on,” she muttered, plunking herself back down behind the desk, leaning forward in the chair and putting her elbow on the desk. She rested her chin in her open palm and regarded him wearily.
He squatted down in front of her and they eyed each other. “What happened this morning? You mentioned you had a rough morning.”
“It’s nothing William,” she sighed.
“Please call me Spike.”
“Spike. Where did you get that nickname?”
He grinned. “I was destined for greatness.”
She was clearly confused. “How do you mean? What does that have to do with your nickname?”
“In time, my lioness.”
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