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“Hello?”
“Oh, I…sorry…”
He sighed irritably. “Here’s a helpful hint: I can’t see nodding. Or head shakes. Or shrugs. Or middle fingers. Or interpretive dances. When I ask you a question, you need to actually speak.”
“Okay, sorry,” I said and heaved a breath.
Don’t let him rattle you. Think of the private living space. The peace and quiet…
“And don’t say sorry,” Noah snapped. “Christ, if there’s anything I hate more than nodding, it’s apologies.”
“I got it, but you’re making me nervous as hell.”
“Am I? And I’m having one of my good days.”
This was a good day?
Maybe Lucien was right. Maybe I’m in over my head.
I shrugged out of my light jacket before I started sweating. “I’d like a glass of water. May I?”
“Knock yourself out.”
“Thanks. Would you like some?”
I wasn’t trying to score points with the offer. Contrary to what Noah might’ve thought about my manners, my parents had raised their children to be polite. But the question seemed to throw him slightly. His intense hazel gaze sought me and missed; he locked on to a space just to my right. So close. I had only to lean a little and our eyes would have met.
“Uh, no,” he said. “No.”
I started to nod and caught myself. “Okay. I’ll just…”
I rose and went to the kitchen. I found a glass in the rich dark wood cabinets to the left of the sink and took my chances with NYC tap water. I wasn’t about to go rummaging in the fridge for bottled or filtered. All the while, I felt Noah’s keen attention on me just as strongly as if he’d been staring with working eyes.
I took a long pull, mentally fortifying myself.
He’s rude but he’s in pain. Remember that.
I also decided that if he crossed the line, I would walk.
But with free rent and a livable salary, would I know the line when I saw it?
I resumed my seat on the couch and put my glass on a coaster that had the Eiffel Tower on it.
“Better?” The cutting tone to Noah’s voice was back. “Can we start now?”
I found my head nodding again and said quickly, “Yeah. Yes. I’m ready.”
“All right, I’ll make this quick. Being my assistant means keeping the hell out of my way and making sure that everyone and everything else does too. You’re here to clean up after me, ensure I have what I need to survive, and that’s it. Do the dishes, take out the trash. You’ll mop the floors, and if you’re not a sadist, you’ll warn me ahead of time they’re still wet. You’ll dust and vacuum, do my laundry, fold and put my clothes away, and maybe even iron. I hate wrinkles, and God knows I want to remain presentable to the scores of nobody I’ll be entertaining. Do you cook?”
I blinked at the sudden question. Noah spoke in a sharp, rapid-fire manner, his brain firing on all cylinders. But the last question was an opportunity to score some points toward getting the job. Or so I hoped.
“Yes, I cook,” I said brightly. “Nothing fancy, but my mother taught me all the basics. I make a great baked chicken—”
“Forget it,” Noah snapped. “You’ll do my grocery shopping for shit like cereal and snack food, but no cooking. Not for me, anyway. I have several places I order from, and you’ll make those orders and pick them up.”
“You order out for every meal?”
His eyebrows went up. “Do you have a problem with that?”
