"I-- ah...."

Why does the word 'mistress' send a particularly welcome shiver down his spine? She's talking about work, (right?) but it may as well be sex by the way it makes him feel.

He's not even cut out for this. Budgeting, housekeeping, tending to hair and nice clothes, doing business and being, like, a voice for somebody who already carries herself with so much confidence and authority. It's a lot to manage, and he'd definitely fail at it. He knows he will.

But god is it fucking appealing. The intimacy inherent in the position isn't lost on Jeff. And he's unmoored, and so lonely, and this is like being offered a very intriguing, very attractive lifeline. Even without the benefit of free time to pursue his music, and a patron, this would be a desirable offer.

Jeff wants to say yes, but he knows he isn't worth all this. He knows he'll just fuck it all up. He pulls his drink close and holds it with both hands, a little fidgety from nerves, and he wonders if Deirdre can see right through him.

"I dunno if I'm-- if I'd be any good at... um." He glances down at his drink, breaking eye contact to stare at the amber liquid for a moment, before lifting his gaze again. "Why me?"