𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔈𝔩𝔰𝔢

Translations

• Se galocher: To kiss passionately (informal/slang).

• Je ne pense qu'à toi: I only think of you.

• J'ai soif de toi: I thirst for you (I desire you deeply).

• Mon amour: My love.

• Mon chéri: My darling (masculine).

• Ma biche: My doe (a term of endearment, like "sweetheart").

• Mon ange: My angel.

• Mon cœur: My heart.

• Ma puce: My flea (a playful, affectionate term, like "sweetie").

• Ma passion: My passion.

"Tu es le rêve qui habite mon cœur."(You are the dream that lives in my heart.)

ᏒᎥᏋᏝ

"Should I bring them to you?" Harlow asks me in an eager voice.

Why won't this man be a normal boss for one day?

"No," I slightly open the bathroom door to peek out at him. "I'll come for them myself."

"Well then," Harlow stands with on arm stretched up, gripping the bedpost casually, the motion boasting his sturdy, hunky stature. "Come get them." He has my bathrobe, and towel tossed over his left shoulder.

"Sir," I protest. "I'd prefer if you just drop them on the bed."

He leans more lazily against the bedpost. "Je peux rein fair, Monsieur Summers." He speaks French now.

"I don't speak French," I tell him.

"Don't worry," he says. "Come to me, and I'll teach you a few phrases." His low-slung gray sweatpants ride just below his hips, disclosing the enticement of firm skin, and the faintest shadow of his lower abs. "Phrases like; se galocher, je ne pense qu' à toi, j' ai sofi de toi, mon amour, mon chéri, ma biche, mon ange, ma cœur, ma puce, ma passion ..." He combs his fingers through his hair, his lips part beautiful French to my ears.

"Aren't some of those love phrases?" I ask him, I hadn't forgot everything from AP French.

"What if they're?" Harlow retorts. "You're still learning French."

I find the courage to step outside of the bathroom. "As your assistant, it be more beneficial for you to teach me  words that would help me in a professional setting."

"You're off the clock." He tilts his head at me, his gaze smoldering, and direct, a smirk playing on his lips.

Harlow's my boss, but damn — what wouldn't I give to climb him?

"I remember you telling me," I motion to get my towel, and robe from him, "that I'm always on the clock."

"You'll have to do better than," he stands to his full 6'5, bringing his arms out of my reach, "short stuff."

"Just because you're taller, doesn't make me short," I tell him, grabbing onto his arm, tugging it down to me. But he's strong, and the moment he flexes the muscles in his arm, I get lifted into the air.

"I like it when you get sassy with me," Harlow moves the towel to his other hand. "I like it a lot."

"You shouldn't," I tell him. "You should punish me."

I change tactics, and climb get my linens out his hands.

"You're suggesting that I spank you?" Harlow asks.

I stop moving at his question. "What?" I gulp. "I meant reprimand."

"Did you?" He looks so deeply in my eyes that I trip on myself. "Careful," he uses his arm to catch me as I am seconds away from toppling to the floor.

"Sorry," I whisper.

He curls his arms around my waist, and huddles me to his chest. "I'll go crazy if anything happens to you," he mumbles in a pensive voice.

Harlow lifts me down to ground. "Here," he hands me my towel, and robe.

"Thanks," I go burning in the cheeks.

I take a longer bath than I needed. I don't think that I'll survive staying in a hotel room with my boss. Harlow is doing, and saying things that make me forget that he's an engaged man. Every single second that I spend with him — he makes it heaven on earth.

I wipe the tears that leak from the corners of my eyes. I don't even why I'm crying. Passing time, I soak into the apricot scented bubbles. I rinse myself more than once hoping that the cold water would dampen my ardor for

a man that's supposed to be my boss.

I get all  deck out in the fancy pajama set that I brought on sale off an airline's online gift shop. I can't believe I put with an irascible man like Harlow on the daily, so I could waste my paycheck on luxury sleepwear.

I had never just wasted money on myself before, yet I had made my family waste my hard earned money on themselves.

I walk into the bedroom, pulling the shower cap off my hair. My shy eyes meet Harlow's as he catches sight of me.

"Sir, is there anything that I can help you with?" I ask him.

"No," he whispers. "You can go to bed."

I wasn't going to argue with the man on sleep, so I get into bed. I turn over and over in the bed, trying to find the right spot to get comfy in. I turn onto my side, and immediately fall under Harlow's watchful gaze.

"What do you dream about?" Harlow whispers.

"Being happy," I tell him. "Making a name for myself,

owning a little seaside cottage in Maine . . ."

"Hmm," he considers. "Sounds modest."

I watch him watching me. "What can I say?" I chuckle softly. "I'm simple. I don't plan on being insanely rich or anything. I just want to make enough money that'll allow me to live comfortably for the rest of my life."

"What about falling in love ?" He asks me. "Don't you dream of getting married?"

"Asking for a friend?" I question him as a joke.

He raises out of his couch, crossing the room with easy, unhurried steps to the bed.

"Asking for myself," he answers in a soft voice, pulling the extra pillow from beside me.

I ignore his obvious ploy to flutter my insides.

"What about your dreams?" I ask him.

Silence fills my ear as Harlow takes a long while to give me an answer, and when does it's in French.

"Tu es le rêve qui habite mon cœur." He says under his breath.

I try committing his words to memory so I'd be able to translate them online, but sleep clouds my mind and I forget them.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

"Say nice to meet you, and smile," I give Harlow tips on acceptable social skills.

An assembly of enlivened girls, and gays congregate at Harlow's feet. The flashing cameras, and being forced into vlogs and livestreams, leaves him visibly irritable, disoriented and tired.

"I don't like this a tiny bit," he bellyaches. "I hate being made into a spectacle."

Why is he complaining to me? It's not my fault that an editorial named him one of the sexiest CEOs alive. He should blame himself for being handsome, and rich.

"Smile," I whisper words of encouragement. "They will get bored of you, soon enough."

He forces the tiniest of smiles for a selfie with a lively blogger.

"You know," he weeps, "my last assistant was so much nicer to me than you."

"And yet you fired him?" I retort.

"If I hadn't fired him," he mumbles. "How would I get to enjoy being on the receiving end of your delightful

bullying?"

Harlow's answer stirs a suspicious look from me. "You aren't seriously telling me ... you like it when I'm mean to you?"

"Yes," he hangs his head at my ear, lowering his voice away from the people making video content. "You're my favorite kind of mean."

"Hmph," I press my lips together, refusing to blush at his attempted flattery.

"I'm ready to get out of here," Harlow whines. "Get me out of here, and I'll buy you your cottage in Maine."

"What's the catch?" I ask, squinting at my watch.

"You'll have to take me in," he whispers.

"Not happening," I tell him. "There wasn't any mention of taking in my boss in my dream."

"I don't have to be your boss," he corners me at the one spot that the camera aren't pointing.

"Who else can you be?" I ask him.

"I can be your—" he slows his word, dangles his hand at my side, and slides his pinkie against mine, looping around it gently. His touch charges my being with a dangerous amount of electricity.

"Sir," I poke his shoulder."We should go now. You're getting late for your other meeting."

I'm lying straight to the man's face, but for my sake, I couldn't let him finish whatever answer he was going to give me.

"Hi, Darnell," I say into my phone. I usually didn't pick

up calls from my brother, but this time him calling me came as convenient excuse for me to avoid Mr. Harlow.

"Why did block my homie?" Darnell shouts. "You ain't got no love."

"Darnell . . . don't yell at me on a phone plan that I pay for," I cover my mouth as I snap at him. "And, I'm tired of wasting my love on ingrates on the likes of you and your homeboy."

Darnell didn't talk to me for a month, after he found about me and Da'vante. According to him and my dad, I was leading impressionable young black men astray with my homosexual persuasions.

"You've changed," my brother mumbles. "That new job of yours is making you uppity. Rotting your brains."

"At least I've brains to rot," I hiss. "And, you should be pumping air into the tires not your head."

I hang up the phone on my brother, and turn to look at Harlow, almost hitting my head into his.

"Were you listening in on my conversation?" I ask him.

"Your conversation was loud," he scolds me. "You left me with no other choice."

"Sorry," I tell him.

Why am I even apologizing? It's his fault that I had to answer the call from brother. If he had kept his pinkie to himself — I wouldn't have lost my senses.

Harlow's next meeting was a crime against my sinuses.

"Achoo," I sneeze at the scent of citrus zest and florals.

In middle of a husband, and wife duo tirelessly trying to convince Mr. Harlow to buyout their small perfume brand. I catch the sharp flicker of Harlow's gaze from across the room. His eyes narrow just enough to send me a silent warning that my sneezing was bothering him.

"Haute Magazine listed our company as niche perfume brands to known in summer 2024, and we sold over six hundred thousand bottles in the first year of launching our new scent." The wife is doing most of the business talk, while her husband gives her thumbs up from the sidelines.

I inspect a sample bottle of the perfume, and I'm pretty sure I would've brought it for the cute look of the bottle alone.

"Who are your retailers?" Harlow unfolds himself from his chair, his presence growing larger with each step in my direction.

The business owner gets discouraged from presenting at the his actions but continues. "Ici en Europe, ou?"

"All of our retail partnerships, Mrs. Roux," Harlow's voice is taut with annoyance as he takes his new seat beside him.

What kind of a man gets peeved by a such a brilliant woman?

"Summers," Harlow grabs the support of my chair, and wheels me in between his manspread. "May I test this on you?"

"They have these," I show him the number of test strips around us.

"I'm not blind," he says. "I don't want to smell a piece of paper. I see how the product works on the skin."

"You could test it on our skin," I suggest.

"Our formula is designed to evolve with the customer's body chemistry," Mr. Roux explains. "The fragrance is slightly different on each wearer."

Can we go back to Mr. Roux not talking and just being seen?

"Okay," I offer him the inside of my wrist.

Harlow brushes over my a wrist, and spritzes my neck with perfume.

"Tilt your head," he whispers in a coaxing tone.

I obey, my pulse flutters wildly as he leans closer. His fingers trace the curve of my neck, trailing a path to the spatter of perfume on my skin.

He leans his face into my collar. "Mmm," Harlow's hot breath grazes my skin. "I want . . ."

I nervously hook my shoulders under my neck. "Sir," I breathe. "Don't you think this quite an unusual way to test the fragrance?"

He thumbs the outline of my sun shaped pendant. " I don't," Harlow caresses secret sweet spot, I have at my neck with his finger.

I cup the wrist of his hand, pushing his arm to his side.

"You're in meeting," I remind him.

"Yes," Harlow agrees. "I was starting to forget that."

He was starting to forget that? Is this man okay in the head?

"Good thing, I reminded you." I say nervously."If you'll excuse me, I'm stepping outside for a moment."

I hightail it out of the meeting to find my breath.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

"It's your first time in France," Harlow doesn't have the shame not to speak that meeting — "right?"

"It is," I ignore his face, focusing on writing an email to

HA's lawyers about the company's recent acquisition.

"Then, we can't go back to New York," he tells me. "Not until you see Paris."

"I'll see Paris some other day," I whisper. "I've work on Monday morning."

"I'm your work," he turns off my laptop.

"Sir," I groan. "I was working on something."

He takes no notice of my drafting of correspondence.

"You're going to see Paris," Harlow insists.

"Mr. Harlow," I sigh. "I already scheduled you to be out of France by tonight."

"Just tell the aircrew that we'll be stopping off in Paris on our way to New York," he says.

"Sir, it won't fit in into your schedule." I tell him. "And, I don't your jet can just land in Paris because you want it to."

"Stop finding excuses," Harlow shouts at me. "And find someway to make it work."

I could actually cry right now. Why is he yelling at me?

We make it back to the hotel, and Felicity runs to meet her brother at the car. I try to get behind him, but he closes the door on me. "You're going with my sister to shop," Harlow props his head through the car window.

"And you?" I ask him.

"Back to the hotel room," Harlow pulls the door for his sister to get in the car.

Felicity whisks me off to some luxury department store

that thirty minutes away from the hotel. My boss must think that I'll be better at bag holding than helping him

look over the books of his new company.

"This shirt would look good on you," Felicity examines a sheer silk shirt against my chest.

"I wouldn't have anywhere wear it to," I tell her. "Nor would I be able to afford it." I look at the price tag that comes with the shirt.

"Wear it in Paris," she says. "And my brother is the one paying."

"I'm not wearing something that's see through around my boss," I put the shirt back the rack.

"Hmm," she mumbles.

"Hmm?" I ask. "What do you mean hmm?"

"Riel come on," Felicity sighs. "It's almost too oblivious that my brother doesn't want to be your boss."

"He wants to fire me?" I ask. "Did he say something to you?"

"Yes," Felicity answers.

"What?" I yell. "That ogre can't possibly think that I'm just going to let him fire me."

"Relax," Felicity laughs. "Your next gig will come with a diamond ring, the last name Harlow, and me as your lovely sister–in–law."

"Are you crazy?" I scold her. "Don't make jokes about something like that."

"I'm not crazy," Felicity defends her sanity. "I happen to be very insightful. You're the crazy one. You don't even see that my brother is carrying a torch for you."

"Stop," I tell her. "Your brother is engaged. He belongs

to Mallory. And any torch he carries is for her."

"Let's agree to disagree," Felicity says.

I follow Felicity through the department as she clears rack after rack of clothes. I get distracted in the Tom Ford section by a calf leather racer jacket.

"You should get it," Felicity walks up from behind me.

"I'm not spending your brother's money," I tell her.

After hours of refusing to be swayed into spending my boss's coins with his sister, and three hours on a plane to Paris, I get out on the runway.

"What are you doing?" Harlow asks when I don't fall in line with his footsteps.

"Waiting for your sister," I tell him.

"She isn't invited," he replies.

Felicity walks off in the stairs in slinky lace mini dress, and black leather jacket in her hands.

"I wouldn't want to impose," she injects. "So, I'm going clubbing with some old classmates from TASIS."

"You wouldn't be imposing," I tell her.

"She would be," her brother grumbles.

Felicity takes my hand, squeezing them. "Riel, sweetie, you're way too gorgeous not to have a clue on men."

I have a clue on men, just not on the one that signs my check.

"And it's my hope," Felicity continues, "that you'll start going after what you want." She puts the equivalent of

ten grand in US dollars over my shoulder.

She's actually using a jacket as motif to encourage me to go after her brother.

"Will you two stop with the chitchatting?" Harlow says in a heavy breath.

"Fine," Felicity hisses. "I'm going."

In a matter of seconds, Harlow is seeing off his sister's Uber. The gleam of the taillight falling over every hard muscle under his clothes.

"Why didn't we leave for Paris in the same car as your sister?" I ask him.

"I've made different arrangements," he tells me.

I look around for another car, but there's none. "Which is?"

"It's coming," his voice gets drown out by loud rumble of rotors.

A helicopter lands near the airplane, blowing a strong gush of breeze at my face.

"Our ride is here," Harlow tells me, unbothered by the howling wind coming off the spinning blade. "Let's go," he takes my hand.

Mr. Harlow leads me out the door that's swung open. I duck, thinking that the rotors are getting close enough to chop my head off.

"It's not coming to get you," Harlow gives my flinching an amused once-over.

"I'm suddenly feeling iffy by heights," I tell him.

"You can hold onto me, once we're in the air." He says in a proud tone.

"Sir," I gasp as he runs his hands over my waist, lifting me into the helicopter.

The helicopter lifts gracefully from ground, rising over the bright airport. I eagerly look out at Paris unfolding from the wide window.

"Are you crazy?" Harlow grabs me by the sides. "Don't stick your head out."

"Sorry," I blush at the heat forming between us.

Harlow holds me firmly against him, even though the seat buckles around my waist.

"It's okay," Harlow whispers. "Look, there's the Seine."

He points at the silver colored river below us, winding its way through the heart of the city. Bridges arch over the glimmering water, their lamps casting shadows on the river's currents.

"I can't believe this view," I whisper.

"I can't believe it either," Harlow agrees, but he stares  at me instead of Paris.

I pull away from his face. We would actually be kissing if he comes any closer. I decide not get lightheaded at the feel of his hands running along my back, so I could

see the full stretch of Paris.

We soar closer to the Eiffel Tower, its iconic ironwork is more impressive than it was in Rush Hour 3.

The helicopter laps around the city, hovering above the best sights in Paris. Between the Louvre, the Cathédral, the Arc de Triomphe . . . I couldn't decide which one to be more psyched out at. Harlow sits casually the entire ride, one hand resting on his knee, the other clutching me to him like he expects me to fall out.

The pilot makes a smooth landing, and the instant the door opens, I greet the cool Parisian air.

"Je suis à Paris," I shout the only bit of French I know.

"Oui," Harlow says. "Paris has been anxiously waiting for your arrival."

A sleek red car that looks like something out of 70s spy movie comes roaring down the helipad. It's impossibly low to the ground, almost like it's hugging the asphalt, with a shining, curvy body that slices through air.

The driver steps out, handing over the keys to Harlow.

Harlow wraps the keys in his palm, walking over to the Lamborghini. "Aren't you coming?" He asks, stopping at the passenger's side.

"I don't know," I say. "Are you even allowed to drive in France?"

"I'm," he answers. "We're getting late."

"Late for what?" I take small steps to the door that he's holding open for me.

"You'll see," he replies.

I don't understand Mallory. I really can't comprehend how she lets a man like Harlow walk the earth without keeping a tight leash on him. I just don't get it.

It's should be a criminal offense to be so darn sexy. We shouldn't even allow the other men to exist with Shaw Harlow around. It's woefully disappointing to look at another man after seeing him. Or maybe I'm crushing too hard?

I admire my boss through the rear view mirror. He had the sleeves of shirt rolled up, four or five of the buttons undone, leather watch around his wrist, and sunglasses  to match. I don't think anyone has worn sunglasses out in the night since the 90s. And there's something about a man that knows his machine that gets me. I'm not an expert on cars, but I know that a vintage car like this one doesn't coddle its driver; they want skill, attention, and control.

Watching Harlow shift  gears smoothly, handle the raw power of the engine — made me excited.

I go back to watching Paris. I shouldn't waste my time thinking about things that I can't have.

"Your hair," Harlow starts to say something about my locs.

"What about it?" I sigh, thinking that he's opening his Caucasian mouth to say something about my hair that would make me reject ever finding him attractive.

"Your hair is so beautiful," he tells me. "I'm wondering if you'll let me touch it. I've been trying to find excuses to touch your hair for a longest while, but I can't so I'm asking if you'll let touch it."

"I don't know," I tell him honestly. "It's hair. You make it sound foreign, and I don't like that."

He stops the car. "I'm sorry," he says. "I shouldn't have asked."

As the car wounds through Paris's street, I don't find myself enjoying the cobblestones, and quintessential streetlights. I experience a guilty feeling at the pit of stomach.

Why do I suddenly feel like a crummy person for not letting the man touch my hair?

I squint up at the full length of the Eiffel Tower, the car is a 5 to 10 minutes's walk away from the monument. I loosen my cramped legs from the car, and step outside behind Harlow.

It takes seven minutes of odd silence for us to reach to the tower. I didn't mind the awkward silence between me, and Harlow, as much as mind the bad smell that's ruining all my expectations of the city.

Being in the elevator recuses my nostrils from the pee smell, and I could go back to appreciating views of the city as it raises to top of the tower.

"Welcome to the top. At 276 meters above the ground, you're standing at the highest publicly accessible point in Paris," our guide gives a rundown on the Iron Lady.

I stop listening to the tour that I could easily find on YouTube to grab a flute of bubbly from a man dressed in a black tailcoat.

"Ça ira pour nous à partir d'ici," Harlow dismisses the guide, and the butler.

I didn't mind the added company, no other tourists are up here, and I can't help but think that a private tour of the Eiffel Tower is something you enjoy with a date, or spouse — not your boss.

I pop a chocolate truffle into my mouth, before I wash away its bittersweet taste with a sip of champagne.

The wind tugs at my hair as I lean over the rusting iron railings to peer down at the city. France's capital really does deserve its nickname as the city of lights.

"Cold," Harlow asks casually. He stands at my right as if to comfort me from the cold.

"No," I say. "I'm quite warm."

I watch as the night slowly slips away from us. I start to feel hesitant about going back to New York. I can't tell if it's the man or the city, but I feel in love.

"I'm ending my engagement," Harlow announces out of the blue.

He steps around me, tucking me into the curve of his body.

"Why are you telling me this?" I ask, nervous to hear his answer.

"You've given me a new perspective on life," he replies.

I pull away from his, not believing what he's saying.

"I don't want to hear this," I tell him. "Leave me out of whatever decisions you're making about your life."

He looks at me, his jaw tightening. "That isn't what I'm doing," he defends him. "Will you give me a chance to explain myself?"

"No," I get away from him. "I'm ready to leave now."

"Riel," he pleads . . . it's the first time that he has called by my first name.

"Stop," I yell. "Don't say another word to me unless it's about my job. I'm your assistant, nothing else."