He nodded. "Of course," he said. "No job is worth your honor or your pride."
"Easy for you to say," I said, "You are your own boss, you don't have to worry about getting into a situation like this."
He put his own fork down and glared at me.
"That's right, I'm my own boss, and everyone else's boss on that damn ranch," he said. "I'm the one who has to make all of the moral decisions, and so I bet I've made a sight more of them than you have."
My mouth was in a thin line of anger by now.
"Your work is always more important than mine, isn't it?" I asked. "You always know better about things you've never done, because you run a ranch."
"That's not what I said at all," he fired back, "Don't go putting words in my mouth, I can't stand that."
"Are you sure?" I asked. "Those words sounded pretty natural in your mouth, like they'd been there before."
He pursed his own lips.
"Naomi, that's not fair," he said. "I've never said anything like that."
I raised my eyebrows.
"You've implied it enough times, though," I said. "You can't get out of that totally."
"I mean what I said. No job is worth your honor. If that Herman Banks asks you to do something wrong, you should just leave," he said.
"In what universe is it that simple?" I demanded. "I have bills, Clint. I have bills and I have a resume to worry about and I have to think about the next place I could work and whether or not they'd hire me."
"Just move in with me," he said, "If you can't pay for your apartment because your boss isn't doing the right thing, you can just move to the ranch."
"Oh, so I can live in your guest room?" I asked. "That's not weird at all. That is totally normal. I'm glad you suggested it. It sounds fantastic."
I bit off each sentence with sarcastic anger.
"Come on, Naomi," he said. "I'm trying to give you a solution."
"I don't want you to give me a solution," I hissed. "I'm not an idiot, I can solve my own problems."
"I never said that you were an idiot," he said, "I just don't think you should let one lousy boss turn you into someone you don't want to be."
How did Clint know who I wanted to be and who I didn't? The assumptions he was making were pissing me the hell off.
I stood up and grabbed my purse.
"I'm ready to be done with this dinner," I said, sarcastically, "If that's not too big an imposition."
He scowled. "Not at all," he said. He pulled out his wallet as he stood, and put a few bills on the table.
As I left the restaurant, he was on my heels.
"Where are you going?" I asked.
"To my truck, to take you home," he said.
"Don't bother, I can get home by myself," I told him.
"I'm angry at you," he said, "But I'll never be angry enough at you to want you to walk home in this neighborhood in those heels."
I looked down at my feet. I was wearing some of the dressiest shoes I owned, and they weren't at all comfortable. If I tried to walk home in those, I'd either break them or my own ankle.