Page 5 of A Bookish Story

CHAPTER 2

In the first week of work, five more people come by to interview for the position of research assistant. Mr. Brady now makes me answer the door and tell them the position is filled. I admit I don’t mind doing this as I’m much nicer about it than he is.

“So sorry, the job is filled. But good luck in your future endeavors!”

Once, a university student looking for work was so upset she cried.

“If I’d gotten here sooner I could have had this job.”

I hugged her. “Oh hey, hey. Did you know they’re looking for baristas at The Drip? Tell them I sent you; I used to work there.”

“Thanks,” she said, wiping away a tear. “You’re so nice.”

That time, Mr. Brady looked up from his work, his mouth once again refusing to give in to another smile.

“Maybe you’re a little too nice.”

“There’s no such thing!”

“Whatever,” he said. “Kids need to get used to disappointment.”

I work for him in the mornings and depending on the day, I have my afternoons free. I’m also able to work from home but Mr. Brady would rather I work in close proximity. He claims it keeps him on track because he wouldn’t feel comfortable taking a nap while I’m here. Apparently, he’s prone to those when on deadline.

He’s not horrible to work for. I mean, I’ve had a lot worse. He does answer the phone in an interesting way.

“What?” is his preferred way of greeting people who deign to interrupt him with a call.

It’s the reason I didn’t argue about answering the door to inform interviewees the position is taken. And happily, the block is working. I can appreciate his male hotness in theory. Like the way I stare at a rainbow or a glorious sunset and appreciate the vibrant colors. I don’t want to make out with the rainbow or the sunset. It’s just very beautiful. Ryan has fallen into this “hot block” area in which I appreciate his objectively good looks while, in fact, they are not even slightly affecting me.

The day he hired me I searched online for Ryan Brady books. He’s written four World War II historical fiction novels for a major publishing house. There have been awards and distinctions but no bestseller status. The point is, he’s reviewed without fail in the major places and they’re always positive, raving about his prose and suspenseful plots.

“Professor.” I interrupt him now.

“What?” He sounds annoyed, then shoves a hand through his hair and turns to me. The ends stick up, glasses slightly askew.

Click.

He blinks, then scowls. “Did you just take my picture?”

“Why yes, I did. And you look great. Adorable and more importantly approachable.”

“What are you doing with that?” He points to my phone.

“I’m posting it on your socials with some pithy and cute comment about how hard at work you are on your new book.”

“Why?”

“Before the end of the month, I bet we double your followers.”

“But I didn’t hire you to up my social media game.”

“You don’t have a social media game. Look at this as an extra service I provide.” While I have his attention I reach for several notes gleaned from the City of Richmond’s website. “You aren’t giving me enough work. Should I pick up where I left off yesterday, or do you have something I could read?”

“What I need now is a list of California area surnames from the nineteen forties. Focus on the Bay Area, people with Spanish heritage.”

“Yes, I’ll get to that.”

Rather than working in separate rooms, he decided we should work together on the dining room table, where our books and papers mingle. I sit several seats away from him to give him plenty of elbow room. Mr. Brady is a messy writer. He tends to stare off into space a great deal, which I recognize as the mark of a writer, but occasionally he tightly grips a worn baseball while he does, which makes him…confusing.