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Jonathan reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “It’s gonna get better, Tali. When the right guy comes along, your walls will recede.”
I sort of doubt that, given my plan is just to avoid men altogether.
But either way, Hayes Flynn won’t be touching my walls, or anything else.
2
I pull into the circular drive and glance over the schedule Jonathan gave me:
7:30 Arrive at the Starbucks on Highland. Order one venti latte (whole milk) three sugars.
7:45 Let yourself in using code. Disable alarm. Place coffee and papers on kitchen counter.
If Hayes is not downstairs by 8 AM, text him. If that fails, you’ll need to go wake him up. Warning: he may have company.
I’m worried I’m missing something, and in truth I’m not even sure I’ve gotten those first few instructions right. The latte has already sloshed on my skirt and I don’t know if I’m supposed to add the sugars myself or if The Dark Lord can actually do that much on his own.
I could check with Jonathan if I really had to, but he’s currently in route to Manila, and I should probably save harassing him for the bigger questions. God knows they’re likely as the day unfolds—if I even last that long. Sitting here in front of Hayes’s Hollywood Hills mansion, I’m starting to feel a little uncertain on that front.
First, because I already hate my boss, which is always a bad sign.
Second, because I really hate his house. I’d expected something more like Hayes himself: clean lines and beautiful angles with pops of lush, unexpected beauty. Instead, it’s the house you’d buy if, perhaps, you got famous off a YouTube song about farting—large enough to house a sizable village and replete with far too many tacky flourishes: fountains, columns, arching windows, turrets. And in a climate where flowering trees and bougainvillea flourish, his only landscaping involves some neatly trimmed hedges and a single, stocky palm, which hints at the exact sort of soullessness I’d expect from someone with his tabloid history.
I put my shoulders back and take one deep breath before I exit the car. Whether I like him or his house is irrelevant. This job is a means to an end for me, the first decent break I’ve had in a very hard year, and I’m not going to mess it up.
No matter how awful he clearly is, I don’t have to like him to hold my tongue and do his bidding. It’s only six weeks, after all.
Juggling the papers and the coffee and my bag, I manage to open the door and silence the alarm. My heels echo against the floor as I walk through, deeming the interior every bit as disappointing as the exterior: marble floors, lots of huge wood furniture, two winding grand staircases leading to separate wings of the house. I’m lonely sleeping by myself in a studio, so I can’t imagine how I’d feel in a space this vast. Then again, Hayes undoubtedly doesn’t sleep alone often.
I pull out the two cell phones I’ve inherited from Jonathan—one for Hayes’s normal calls and one for emergencies—and am about to arrange the newspapers when I hear him coming down the stairs. My heart begins to beat—overfast, nearly audible. Dealing with patients and running errands will be the bulk of my job. That I can handle. The one thing I’m not prepared for is meeting the man himself.
I glance in the mirror across from me, confirming that the new silk blouse is still tucked in and the spilled coffee stain on my skirt isn’t too obvious. Everything about me screams “pocket-sized and nonthreatening”—hair pulled back in a high ponytail, mascara and lip balm on my face and nothing more—aside from my eyes, which remain a trifle, um, defiant. I need them to say I’m here to serve, and at present they say something more like I’m carrying pepper spray, or I know gang members.
Before I can correct it, he appears, dressed in a crisp white shirt and black suit, even taller than I’d realized—and even prettier. Dark hair gleaming, damp and pushed off his face, a slight flush to his sharp cheekbones, still warm from the shower.
It’s a face that would force you to look a second and then a third time. A face that makes you brace for the sound of his voice...undoubtedly low and rough as gravel, the kind of voice that plucks a chord at the base of your stomach, makes you squeeze your thighs together in anticipation. Or would, were he not looking at me as if I’d just broken into his home.
“Is this a joke?” he demands. His voice is exactly as I imagined. Too bad he had to ruin it by being him. He must have known I was coming, and I haven’t done anything wrong yet.
“No,” I say, suddenly grateful the counter separates us. “I’m Tali. Jonathan asked me to fill in for him while he was gone. I assumed you knew.”
A muscle flickers in his jaw. “He told me my replacement was named Natalia,” he says, blowing out a tight breath. “Not his friend, the bartender.”
He says “bartender” as if it’s synonymous with racist or pedophile. I’d think a guy who drinks as much as he does would have a great deal of respect for my profession.
“Is there a problem?” I ask. My voice is probably more threatening and less conciliatory than is called for—no bad situation I can’t make worse. But I quit my job for this, so I’m not going down without a fight.
“I need to speak to Jonathan when he lands,” he says, pressing the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “There’s obviously been a misunderstanding. I mean, do you even have any experience?”
Do I have experience answering the phone and picking up dry cleaning? Yes. Loads. I truly can’t believe Jonathan worried I’d sleep with this guy. Granted, I’d like to do plenty of things to him, but they mostly involve spit, and not in a sexy way.
“Yes,” I reply, folding my arms beneath my chest. “Last I checked, answering phones didn’t require an MBA from Harvard.”
“Which you clearly don’t have,” he says.
I could counter that I’ve attended grad school, but referencing something I quit probably won’t help my case.
He grabs the coffee, sighing as he glances at the sugars. Apparently, he is too busy and important to tear his own sugar packets. Lesson learned for tomorrow, not that it appears there will be a tomorrow.
