“There’s a laptop in my office. You can use that. And”—he pulled out his wallet and tossed a black credit card on the counter—“for all that money you spend.” I didn’t like the personal nature of spending this man’s money. Especially with the idea of his bank information already in my duffel bag upstairs. “I don’t need it. I have my papà’s,” I replied, pulling my bottom lip in between my teeth. “You’ll use mine from now on.” His tone was non-negotiable as he put his watch on.
