𝕿𝖔𝖔 𝕮𝖑𝖔𝖘𝖊 𝕱𝖔𝖗 𝕮𝖔𝖒𝖋𝖔𝖗𝖙

ᏒᎥᏋᏝ

Drrring-drrring.

I hate the sound of my phone ringing later than 10 pm and earlier than 8 am. The ten hours between these two times were meant for me. It's 3 am right now, and the person ringing my phone refuses to give up so I get out of bed to pick up the call.

Shaw Harlow.

I sneer at his name flashing across the screen. I nervously put the phone in my ear. Shaw Harlow doesn't speak nicely to anyone so I knew that my day was off to an upsetting start.

"Did I wake you?" he asks, his voice sounding coarse like he hasn't slept.

"Yes," I whisper against the speaker.

"Good," he breathes." I have a job for you."

Good? he said good. I couldn't stand the man but being his assistant meant that he could call me anytime and I followed whatever order he gave.

"What is ?" I ask him calmly.

I'm getting paid thirty-one dollars for every hour I work for him outside of my regular 9 to 5. So, I won't worry about it.

"I can't find my MP3 player anywhere in my house in the Hamptons. I need you to come and find it," he says in his usual cross manner of speaking.

His manner of talking would have set my teeth on edge if it weren't for the deep seductive timbre in which he speaks each syllable.

"Okay, sir," I whisper."Just text me the address."

"No," he tells me."Go get a pen and paper to write it down."

Pen and paper? He does enjoy finding the simplest of ways to make my life that much harder.

"Pen and paper ready." I lie, instead I open the notes app on my phone.

"17 Ocean Avenue East Hampton," he gives me the address.

"And how will I get inside the house, sir?" I ask.

"I'll open the door," he says.

"Wait," I argue."If you're there, why do I have to come and search for it?"

"Do I pay you to ask me questions or work?" He gruffs in a tired tone.

I stick my tongue out at the phone in response to his question.

I wait for him to hang up on me but I hear faint snoring at the other side of the call. I catch myself smiling and I realize that find the sound cute. I press the red button with haste.

I shudder at the thought of finding my boss cute. He's an egotistical; boorish man.

I motion into the bathroom, passing the emptiness of the apartment I had planned to fill with furniture from the flea market.

After my shower, I rummage through my still-packed suitcase for something decent to wear. In my three weeks of moving to NYC, all I have is an empty apartment and neglected laundry, all things that would've been able to fix if Shaw Harlow had just given me a break.

He is a billionaire for crying out loud, surely there's something better to do with time than goading me to quit my job.

With nothing else to wear, I squeeze into a tight black shirt and tuck it into my pants.

I grab my jacket from the counter and hurry to catch the Lyft waiting for me.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

I cross the bridge, open-mouthed at grand the house that is before me. I still refuse to believe that there's an actual bridge leading up to the house.

It's not a house, I used to live in one back in Connecticut. Harlow has an estate.

"Mr. Harlow?" I call, peering into the open door. I wouldn't run the risk of going inside uninvited.

"Are you going to stay outside all day or come in ?" he complains, walking out to meet me at the door.

I roll my eyes at him as I step into the house."Good morning to you as well," I scowl.

A soft smile plays on his lips, and he greets me politely this time, "Good morning, Mr. Summers."

He stretches to close the door behind me, not mindful that he is reaching around me to do so.

I feel the slight brush of his arm against my waist and the warmth of his body lingering too close for comfort at the thin fabric of my shirt.

I try not to but when the door slams, I fluster and lend myself to his gaze. He considers me silently as if he sees me in a way no one else ever has.

My stomach flips at the keenness of

having his carelessly attractive face so close to mine.

"You're sweating," he says softly.

"It must be, um, because of the walk to get up to the house." I lie.

I move away from him, "So, where last did you use the MP3 player ?" I ask to distract him from the fact that my body is responding like it has never been near a man before now.

"In the office," he points upstairs.

He starts up the stairs and I follow after him.

He stops short of a large office with mahogany wood paneling adorning the walls and motions me inside.

"If it's not here, you're free to search anywhere else in the house," he says."I have some work to attend to, so don't prove yourself a nuisance."

"I'll try my hardest," I force a smile at him.

I throw my hands up in the air to flip him the bird on both hands when his back is towards me.

I hate him.

Soon enough, I am prowling around the mansion in its entirety, having to quietly gasp at Harlow having half of a basketball court. And I can't forget his indoor racquetball court, not like the tennis one outside.

Yet with all its luxuries, the mansion doesn't feel lived-in. The studio I just moved into feels more lived-in. Then again, it has only four hundred sq ft to cover, while this house has fifty times that number.

The next place I check is his bedroom, which feels in poor taste but he did say to search anywhere.

I look under the bed, behind the nightstand and its drawers. And finally, the walk-in, where I see the navy suit he wore the day before and check the pockets.

"Why do I feel like a wife snooping about her husband's things?" I ask myself out loud as I turn the pockets of my pants inside out.

A soft amused voice replies to me, " I don't know . . . Why do you ?"

"I think he's seeing other women," I giggle to myself.

I stop giggling as I realize that I am no longer in a conversation with myself and I am actually answering my boss.

"Sir," I gasp, fumbling with his suit."I am sorry," I stammer. "I didn't mean to be inappropriate." I bite my tongue, mentally cursing myself.

"Here's your MP3 player." I stretch the device I found in his pocket towards him.

He slides the MP3 out from my hands.

"You couldn't have been my husband snooping about ?" he asks.

"Yes," I answer."But, I wouldn't expect you to have a husband."

"Hmpf," he huffs." You should learn to expect the unexpected," he tells me.

It almost sounds like he believes there would ever be a chance in this world for me to be his husband.

But, I'm not so delusional to think he's implying that.

His attentive gaze watches me, daring a rush of heat to rise to my cheeks, he still hasn't moved his hand away from mine despite getting the MP3 player.

It takes me a few moments to find my voice."If that's all, sir. . . I'll leave."

"Don't," he breathes.

"What?" I ask.

"I mean, I still have work for you." He corrects himself.

I hate to spend my Saturday with him but it's part of the job to work even on weekends. Rina doesn't know how good she has it to only be required to do his administrative tasks.

"Come," he orders and leads me back downstairs out to a dining area in the garden.

The scent of the ocean tingles in my nose.

As Mr. Harlow settles into the chair at the head of the table, a woman in her late fifties with a navy apron around her waist, comes out from the kitchen to set the table with a spread of what seems like tiny pancakes, sour cream,

salmon, hard-boiled and a round gold can I couldn't read the writing on.

"Sit down," Harlow says, pushing the chair beside him out from under the table.

I sit, closing my lips together.

He picks up the can from a bowl of ice, and twists the lid off, revealing small, dark, glossy beads.

"I hope, you like caviar." He says.

I furrow my brows at him, I couldn't even afford to like caviar.

"I never had it before," I tell him in a low voice.

"Oh," he considers."Well at least try it first and if you don't like it I'll ask to have something else made for you."

"I am not hungry," I mumble."And I would hate to impose on your lunch but thank you for offering."

I am hungry but I don't know if I could handle having lunch with him.

"Don't lie to me," he groans."You'll be here, working for the rest of the day so I expect you to have lunch to be productive."

What else is he planning to have me do? Search for his lost socks.

"Okay," I agree.

"Eat it like this," he says."Start with the blini, then the crème, the salmon, caviar, and any of the topping you see fit." He shows me how to assemble the appetizer.

I repeat after him and bring the dish to my lips to try caviar for the first time. I place my hands at my lips, thinking I might drool at the wave of delight that spreads along my palate.

"It's good," I mouth.

"Great," he says."Have as much as you fancy."

I watch his lips curl into a smirk and spot the cream all over his mustache.

I giggle at the sight of him, thinking in my head he has a moo-stache now.

"What?" He frowns at me.

"You've crème," I mock the fancy way he had said cream in French,". . . all over your mouth."

I split my sides laughing.

"Stop laughing, " he orders me.

"Yes . . . of course, Colonel Sanders." I hold my mouth, surprised at my own words."Sorry," I whisper quickly.

He doesn't see the like I expect, and crack into a deep hearty laugh.

Harlow quickly finds his resting angry face."Just, show me where on my face to wipe," he sighs, grabbing a napkin.

"Here," I motion to the area above his lips but he paints the cream even further into his mustache."You're making, it worse," I tell him.

I forget myself in an instant, touching my thumb over his upper lip. I think to retreat, but he leans into my touch, his eyes draw me into his gaze as if he has magnetized me. With trembling fingers, I wipe away the cream from his face.

I found my breathing slows and I didn't want to move my hands from his face.

"Excuse me, sir . . . " the woman's voice drags me from my daze and I drop my hand from my boss's face.

"Yes?" Mr. Harlow groans.

"I found the vodka you wanted," she tells him.

He receives the bottle of vodka from her and she leaves.

"Do you drink?" Harlow asks me as he streams a shot of vodka into a short glass.

"Not at work," I tell him.

"Aah," he muses." But if you want the best taste of the caviar, try just a sip of the vodka." He pours me a shot.

I sip slowly at the chilled vodka, then I bite into a semi-hard-boiled egg with caviar on top. This time the rich briny flavor of the roe unfolds on my tongue even better than the first time.

I try to alternate between sips of the vodka and bites of caviar but he pulls the glass from my lips.

"Mr. Summers," he tuts. "You're still at work so I would like for you not to get drunk."

"I won't get drunk," I mumble to him.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

I should've known that Harlow inviting me to have lunch with him would've come with a heavy price.

Indulging me with the caviar, lobster, truffle risotto, and lemon tart was just his way of fattening me up for slaughter.

A hundred hotels across five distinct time zones, each with staff speaking in several different languages. And Harlow, unreasonable as always, has me up past my bedtime calling them to ask what brand of toiletries they give to guests.

"Huh?" the Polish lady sighs when I completely botch the pronunciation of soap and guests in Polish.

"Ask me in English," she scoffs in a strong accent.

"I am wondering if you could perhaps tell me which brand of toiletries the hotel carries?"

"Serio?" she asks."Oscar de la Renta," she scoffs and the sound of the call ending rings loudly in my ear.

I note it down.

It's the last hotel on the list, so I take it up to Mr. Harlow in his home library.

"I am done," I announce at the door.

I wait for him to call me inside. Just to make sure, he doesn't shout at me for creeping up on him. Yesterday, Rina wandered into the man's office and learned just how easy it was to set him off.

I don't want the same lesson in how the smallest things upset my boss.

"Summers," he sighs."Is there a reason for you to gawk at the door instead of coming inside ?"

"I am not gawking. " I argue.

"You're not ?" he quips.

"I am not," I retort."I didn't want to break your rule against employees coming into your office without your permission." I remind him of his rule.

"This isn't my office," he sighs tired.

"It's close enough," I tell him.

I am still standing at the door, waiting

for him to invite me in.

"Whatever," he groans."Come inside."

I step inside the library that has dark, moody-colored walls and furniture but is still warm with its old-world charm. You could tell Harlow enjoys intellectualism from the feel of the space but I couldn't tell if he enjoys the air of melancholy that surrounds him.

I laugh at myself for thinking a rich man like him would ever feel pensive and sad. I am sure he has everything he ever wanted in life.

"Here," I hand over the list to him.

He glances it over and folds it to the back of the book he reading.

"Good work," he says.

"Thank you, sir." I say in reply to his praise."I'll take my leave now if you don't mind."

"Wait," he says."Don't you want to ask why I had you made this list?"

"No," I tell him."You don't pay me to pry into your business."

"Of course," he chuckles."At least tell me why you think I asked you to make this list?"

"You like to steal hotel toiletries like the rest of us," I voice sassily, "the only difference is that you can afford to do it internationally."

"Stop with the jokes." He howls.

"Fine," I sigh."You're trying to reach more customers by marketing the Harlow brand in luxury hotels."

He nods approvingly, "You're right."

I find myself stifling a yawn."Yes," I say."Can I go home, now ?"

"Of course," he says."I'll take you," he stops him."I, um, mean my driver will take you."

He wants to take me home

"Thank you," I tell him."But I already have a drive coming for me."

I escort myself of out his home and find my way back to New York.