“Then what?”
“I’m asking you not to assume my knowledge is free just because my shirt is dirty.”
The silence between them changed.
The Female CEO looked at him for a long moment.
Then:
“That may be the first intelligent thing anyone has said to me all morning.”
The Single Dad smiled.
“High standards here.”
She ignored it.
“What do you want?”
“A written consulting agreement.”
“Hourly?”
“No.”
“Percentage?”
He shook his head.
“That gets messy.”
“You’re surprisingly cautious.”
“I have a child.”
That changed her face again.
“You’re a father.”
“Unfortunately for my sleep schedule.”
“How old?”
“Ten.”
“Boy or girl?”
“Daughter.”
The Female CEO looked at the grime on his shirt.
Then at his scuffed boots.
Then at the car.
“What does she think you’re doing here?”
“Looking at cars we can’t afford.”
The Female CEO smiled.
“Accurate.”
“Very.”
She extended her hand.
“Consulting agreement.”
The Single Dad looked at it.
Then shook.
Her hand was warmer than expected.
The contact lasted one second too long.
Both noticed.
Neither mentioned it.
Three hours later, Lot 147 sat inside a secured conservation bay beneath white forensic lights.
The public auction continued upstairs.
Without them.
The Single Dad stood beside the car wearing nitrile gloves.
Across the room, the Female CEO had removed her sunglasses but nothing else about her looked less controlled.
Except the tote.
It sat abandoned on a chair.
The Single Dad found that strangely intimate.
The contract arrived electronically.
He read every page.
The Female CEO paced.
“You’re really reading the whole thing.”
“Yes.”
“It’s standard.”
“So is losing money by trusting the phrase ‘standard.’”
She stopped.
“You have trust issues.”
“I have invoice issues.”
He continued.
The agreement offered him a substantial daily consulting rate.
More money than he had earned during the previous month.
He kept reading.
At the bottom was a discovery bonus.
He stared.
The Female CEO said:
“What?”
“This percentage.”
“Yes.”
“I said I didn’t want a percentage.”
“I know.”
“Then why is it here?”
“Because I changed my mind.”
“You do that often?”
“When people are wrong.”
“Meaning me?”
“Currently.”
The Single Dad looked again.
One-quarter of one percent of the final hammer price if the car authenticated above five million dollars.
That could be life-changing.
He looked up.
“You don’t need to do this.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
The Female CEO stepped toward him.
“Because you were right.”
“That happens occasionally.”
“And because knowledge should not be free merely because it arrived wearing dirty boots.”
He stared.
She had listened.
Not just heard.
Listened.
That mattered more than the percentage.