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Everyone thinks he’s the prince.
The savior. The hero.
They haven’t stopped talking about how he pulled Art out from the hole. Everywhere I turn, someone is talking about the new Mr. Prince.
The cooking staff fawns over him when he goes to eat breakfast. Grace claims that he smiled at her while they were passing each other by in the hallway. Doris calls him my good boy.
“I handed him the bottle,” Leslie breathes to a group of us standing by the stairs in the servant’s wing, going upstairs to the first floor. “He was working out by the pool and I was coming out of the pool house, you know. He was like, hey, excuse me? Can you hand me that bottle of water? I had a fresh bottle of water.” I roll my eyes at that obvious statement, but she goes on, “I did and…” She pauses to sigh. “Our fingers touched.”
“Really?” Grace’s eyes are wide.
“Yes. Oh my God, his fingers. They were just so warm.”
I grit my teeth. I know all about his fingers. I know how warm they are, how rough, how the pads are callused and scraped.
I know what they feel like when they’re on my thighs, in my hair, on my pulse.
I know.
As they talk and talk like they know him, I admit that I’m kind of jealous. It’s been a week since he rescued Art and I haven’t had a chance to talk to him.
Not even once.
It’s not as if we’re friends or anything, that I can casually walk up to him and say, hey. In fact, up until a few days ago, I was praying for him to leave. Although now I’m thinking, what if he leaves and I don’t get to say something?
It’s not that I don’t see him. We live in the same place. Of course I see him.
And I mostly see him with Art.
Since Art’s accident, I’ve apologized to Doris a thousand times. She’s pretty chill about it but I can’t get rid of the guilt. I’ve said sorry to Art too but again, he doesn’t mind.
These days, he’s pretty happy actually. Courtesy of Zach.
I’ve seen them together numerous times. Mostly, they’re by the pool and I see them while going back from my shift. I deliberately walk slowly just to watch them together. Sometimes Zach works out – he works out twice a day; it’s crazy – and he lets Art be his spotter. Art counts his reps and claps when he’s done and tries to imitate him.
One time I saw Zach lying on the ground with Art in his arms, straight up. Grunting, he lowered Art, who laughed like he’d never seen anything funnier. Then, Zach raised him in the air again, like he was doing bench presses. Only instead of weights, he had Art.
I think my knees trembled at the sight.
I never knew Zach could be so… sweet and sexy at the same time.
A few times, I’ve walked up to them to pick up Art on my way back because Doris still somehow wants me to watch him while she’s working.
But Zach and I, we don’t talk. He doesn’t even look at me. Sometimes it feels like he can’t stand the sight of me. And I don’t understand why. I don’t understand why it bugs me.
The only person who isn’t a fan of Zach’s is Tina. She hates him, and that’s saying something.
“God, I can’t believe how everyone’s so crazy about him. Can’t you see, people? He’s the devil. Fine, he saved Art. But what about all the other things he’s done? What about them? People can be so stupid.”
“You sound like me,” I tell her while dusting the library in tower two one day.
“You know, I’m glad you’re moving on and all. But you need to be more upset about this.” Then she gasps. “You know what would be the best thing ever? You should go out with Ryan. That’ll show him.”
“Oh, here’s another great idea: why don’t you go out with Ryan? You used to like him as much as me.”
She goes quiet and it takes me about ten seconds to figure out why. And when I do, my squeal is loud. I mean, really loud.
“Oh my God, you like him,” I shout, poking her shoulder with my duster. “God, Tina. Why didn’t you say anything?”
