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She eyes me like she doesn’t believe me.

“You’ll need to be here at nine with a cold brew coffee. I’ll have some clothes you can take to the dry cleaners for me. And a shopping list.”

“Okay. Perfect.” She nods, pleased with this information.

“And I’m sure you’ll have a lot to do with Noah, so take off whatever time you need. However many days.”

“That seems…too generous. On top of everything, I can’t let you⁠—”

“Don’t argue with me, Millie. Just be here tomorrow at nine.”

Another long moment of inspection. Then she finally stands, so I do too. She sticks her hand out at the same moment I step forward, and she ends up jabbing me in the dick.

“Oh my god! I’m so sorry. Oh my god!”

It was a glancing blow and didn’t hurt, but the humiliation turning her face bright red would have me lying even if she’d kicked me in the nuts with all her might. “I’m fine. It’s fine.”

“I told you.” She rubs her knuckle. “I’m clumsy.”

I wave off her worry and walk her to the door while Harold squawks behind us. “Play Elton! Play Elton!”

Millie pauses. “Elton?”

“He really likes listening to Elton John.”

She’s thrilled with this information, dimple out. “Oh, we’re going to have fun, he and I.”

Not me and her, though. She is my assistant. I am her employer.

As she reminds on her way out. “See you tomorrow, boss.”

CHAPTER 7

MILLIE

In the six days I’ve worked for Austin Ashwood, I’ve listened to an audiobook on the history of baseball, watched two documentary series on the sport, and read approximately twenty-seven articles on the man himself. He was traded to the Philadelphia Thunder this past fall, after he started a brawl on the field with his brother—Brett Ashwood, who is older by two years and has excellent stats, according to my research. Brett is known to be kind, always willing to do interviews for media outlets, does a lot of charity work, and often gives his game mitts away to kids in the crowd. Austin and Brett’s father, Doug Ashwood, was also a professional baseball player and will be inducted into the Hall of Fame this year.

But what I haven’t been able to learn is why Austin started the fight with his brother that had both teams running out of their dugouts. Austin broke Brett’s nose. I watched the video of it so many times, I could probably reenact it from memory. The way Brett removed his catcher’s mask as he strode to the mound where Austin stood, sweating and rotating a baseball in his right hand. They had a few words that appeared all right, but as the manager walked out toward them, Austin swung.

Then all hell broke loose.

They ended up losing the play-offs. It was for the division, and Austin essentially lost the game for them since he was kicked out and Brett could no longer play.

I’m very interested to find out what happened, but I don’t want to ask my brand-new boss about it since it’s evidently a sore subject. I’ve seen the clips of him telling reporters to “fuck off” whenever they’ve questioned him about it. So, I steer clear of the subject and stick to my duties.

Which are not many.

I text him every morning with an ETA, after picking up his coffee. At his place, we usually spend a minute or two talking, then he gives me my orders for the day, which have consisted of: matching his socks, making him a protein smoothie to take with him to the stadium, sorting through his email, which is mostly a lot of spam, handling his social media, which is nothing because he doesn’t post anything ever, and finding a tiny Elton John poster for Harold’s cage. But that was only because I arrived yesterday morning to find him calling Austin a dickhead, so I suggested he get something to make Harold feel more at home.

I found BirdyCraftGoodsStore on Etsy in two hours, and we should be receiving the poster in about a week.

But it’s odd. Austin should be giving me more tasks. He’s basically paying me for two hours’ worth of work, at the most.

It’s not right.

But when I attempt to bring it up, he shuts me down with a “Don’t argue, Millie.”

Then he almost always combs his thick fingers through his hair, making his biceps pop, and I lose all train of thought. Giving in easily with a “You got it, boss.”