Sleeping With The Single Dad - J.J. Bella

SLEEPING WITH THE SINGLE DAD

J.J. BELLA

CONTENTS Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 About the Author

Copyright © 2017 by J.J. Bella All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

1

I

looked over the email with disbelieving eyes, going over the same three sentences that comprised the body of the message again and again. Ms. Kimble, Thank you for your interest in a position with Secret Paper. After carefully going over your information, references, and portfolio, we’ve decided not to go forward with you as a candidate for a position at our agency, though we will keep your resume on file should we find a need for your skills at a later date. Best of luck to you in all future endeavors. Annie Walker It was polite and boilerplate. In the week since the interview at Secret Paper, one of the hottest design firms in Brooklyn, it was as if I’d been walking on air. I did everything right- I asked pointed questions about the company, I showed off my portfolio in a way that (just like the wikihow said) was the right mix of both humble and proud; hell, I even complimented the interviewer’s godawful earrings. I was convinced that I did everything that would guarantee that I got that stupid, barely-entry-level position. But no. One week and one template “thanks but no thanks” email later, I was in the exact same place that I was before: unemployed, and without a

single prospect. Actually, one small difference: there were about a couple hundred dollars less in my already meager bank account than there had been before I interviewed. Sigh. I had been putting it off for long enough, but now there was no way of getting around it: I had to check how much money I had left in my account. My stomach started sinking as soon as I closed the email window and started typing the website into the browser. Once there, I put in my user name and password, my stomach sinking lower and lower with each key as I typed it in. Once done, I clicked “submit” and closed my eyes, fearing the worst. It was worse than that. Current checking account balance…$42.23 Current savings account balance…. $0.00 I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I wanted to pick up my laptop, toss it against the wall, then spend the rest of the night scolding myself for ever thinking I could make it in this stupid city. I should’ve known better; how many girls from the Midwest come to New York fresh out of college with a few thousand bucks saved up and a totally naïve expectation that they’ve got something to offer this place that the ten million people who already live here don’t? Dragging my hands over my face, I did my best to put a stop to the pity party in progress. But right when I finally managed to calm myself with a few deep breaths, I heard a sharp rapping on my bedroom door. “Katie? Open up, please.” It was Kristina, my roommate. My bitchy, trust-fund, never-has-to-worryabout-anything-other-than-where-she’s-going-to-brunch-next, serial-financebro-dater, roommate. She could only be here about one thing: the rent. The rent that I definitely couldn’t pay. Swallowing, I stood up from my flimsy Ikea chair and walked over to the door, opening it and revealing Kristina in all of her petite, blonde-hair, blue-eyed, big-boobed glory, a look of annoyed impatience

playing on her too perfect, sweet-sixteen-gift-plastic-surgery face. “Hey. So, like, are you going to have rent, like, on time this month? Or what?” “Hey!” I said, my voice coming out far too chipper, “uh, yeah, about that…” I leaned my body against the molding of the door frame, trying to make myself look casual, but more likely looking like I was trying to crawl up it. “OK, whatever,” she said, sticking her palm up in a “stop” gesture, “you don’t need to come up with an excuse, so I’ll just remind you that rent is due in ten days. If you have it, great, you get to live here another month. If not, you better have this room cleared out and ready to be rented to someone who can, like, actually pay on time. Bye.” And with that, she turned on her tiny heels and went off down the long hallway to her room, where I could see this week’s finance bro lounging on her bed for a second before she slammed the door shut. I felt miserable. I wanted to give up right then and there. I wanted to throw all of my crap into a dumpster, leave the apartment that I had been stupid to think I could afford and resign myself to a life as a Brooklyn bag lady. But as soon as the reality that what I’d actually be doing - going back to Des Moines, living at my folks’ place, and hearing an endless procession of “I told you so’s” from my friends who thought going to New York was a bad, bad idea- set in, I resolved to make one last stab at finding something. Plopping back down in front of my Macbook and blowing a stray strand of my dark brown hair out of my eyes, I went through the usual sites, hoping something would pop up. At first, it was the usual dregs -unpaid internships, work for “exposure,” that kind of thing- but scrolling down further I saw something that I didn’t expect to see at all. Lane Technologies - Junior Design Coordinator Lane Technologies had only been around for a few years, but they were already a legend in the design world. Just like every other department they had,

their design team was made up of the best of the best, and the stuff they put out was just incredible- the ad for last year’s model of their wireless headphones was already on the cover of this year’s textbook for the design course my senior year prof teaches. I didn’t know if my work was good enough to even get a glance from them, but why not take a shot? After all, I was in New York to dream big. I typed up the email, put in my information and a link to my portfolio, and fired it off. Here’s to hoping, I guess.

2

“O f course, Mr. Deveroux. A pleasure doing business with you. Au revoir,”

I said. The moment I ended the call, I placed my phone onto my desk and began rubbing the bridge of my nose in frustration. We’d been negotiating with a supplier in Paris for weeks now, and it seemed like we were at something of an impasse. That is, until I happened to notice a typo in an email that one of the newer execs had sent to Paris. One week and a dozen explanatory conversations later (not to mention, one less executive), and we finally got the misunderstanding straightened out. Sitting back in my office chair, I leaned into the seat and propped my feet up on the wide expanse of my desk. I normally wouldn’t indulge in such a lack of decorum, but it was only nine forty-five, and I was already very irritated with the messes I was being forced to clean up. I closed my eyes, trying to catch a moment of calm before the next problem made itself known. The shrill beeping of the intercom cut through the silence before I could get too comfortable. “Mr. Lane?” called Amelia, my secretary, her voice thin and tinny through the intercom. “Your ten o’clock is here.” I sat up in my chair and pressed the “call” button.

“I’ll be right out.” Ten o’clock. That would be Mr. Liu, one of the factory owners in China who I was currently in the process of negotiating with. I stood up, buttoned the jacket of my suit, and went out to greet him, planting a smile on my face before I opened the door to my office. “Mr. Liu,” I said, affecting warmth to my voice, “a pleasure to see you.” “Likewise, Mr. Lane,” he said, taking my extended hand and giving it a firm shake. “Anything I can get for you both?” asked Amelia, interjecting, as usual. “No, Amelia, we’re fine.” Amelia was a new addition to the office, hired to replace Mrs. Dougherty, the efficient, stern septuagenarian who formerly worked as my secretary. Amelia was unlike Mrs. Doughtery in just about every imaginable way, especially in terms of appearance and work ethic. Young and pretty, Amelia wasn’t normally the type that I’d hire as an assistant, but she came highly recommended. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her eyes move up and down my body…again. It didn’t bother me; far from it. But having a secretary who was so clearly attracted to me and not afraid to show it called into serious doubt her professionalism. Not to mention I didn’t need the headache of yet another underling drunkenly professing her love for me at the next company outing. As I opened the door for Mr. Liu and led him into my office, I went through the process of mentally rearranging Amelia, figuring out where in the company I could move her. “Now, this is quite the view!” said Mr. Liu, walking over to the wide windows of my office that looked out over the Financial District, the morning sun setting the glass of the towering skyscrapers alight with a brilliant, orange glare. I paid quite a bit of rent for an office with a view like this, but the effect it had on clients was more than worth the exorbitant price.

“Please, Mr. Liu,” I said, gesturing to a couch at the other side of my office. “Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?” “Oh, just a tea for me if you have it, thank you.” I took a seat on the chair facing the couch, and we got down to business. The conversation got a bit heated at times, but when all was said and done, we managed to reach an agreement that was mutually equitable. “Mr. Lane,” said Amelia through the intercom. I felt my eyes narrow; Amelia knew that she wasn’t to interrupt me during a meeting unless it was an issue of the utmost importance. “Yes, Amelia?” I called out, my voice edged with impatience. “Ah, oh, sorry Mr. Lane,” she responded, picking up on my frustration. “Sorry to interrupt, but Olive’s on the line.” “Thank you, Amelia,” I said, my voice softening. “Wife?” asked Mr. Liu. “No,” I said, rising from my seat and walking towards the phone. “Daughter. My apologies.” “Think nothing of it,” he said, his face taking on a warm, fatherly expression, as if reminded of his own family. I snatched the phone from my desk. “Hi, sweetie. What’s up? You know better than to call Dad in the middle of work.” “I know,” she said, her tone delicate. “But you were supposed to give the talk today, for career day. And you’re not here.” My stomach dropped. She was right. I promised her that I’d stop by her school today and give a ten-minute talk to the kids about running a company, and I’d completely forgot. “Listen; I’m sorry, sweetheart. I know I promised, but things got crazy at the office.” “That’s fine; understand.” “How about this- I’ll take off work early tonight and we’ll go get some

pizza, maybe swing by Ladurée for macarons. That sound good?” “Sure,” she said, her voice flat. “See you tonight.” “Bye, baby.” “Bye.” I set down the phone and shook my head. I felt awful enough, but hearing how she reacted, as though not surprised at all, was what got to me the most. I was beginning to lose track of how many times I’d disappointed her like this. “I couldn’t help but overhear,” said Mr. Liu, speaking slowly and carefully, “but might I make a suggestion?” It was the last thing I wanted to hear, but there was no way I could tell a client that. “Sure,” I said, regaining my composure. “Like you, Mr. Lane, I’m a family man. And, like I suspect you are, I’m also a man who likes to make sure everything is just so with my affairs. But as I’m sure you well know, these two things are…difficult to keep in order.” He was right about that. I nodded, indicating him for to go on. “Then I did something that changed my life. Or, I should say, hired someone who changed my life.” I admit, my interest was piqued. “A personal assistant,” he said, the words almost lined with awe. “Just hire some fresh-faced kid out of college to handle your affairs. Nearly everyone in business has one, it’s just that men like you and I are the types who want to do everything themselves, you know?” “Hm. I would worry they’d just get in the way,” I said, not entirely convinced. “That’s just the thing,” he said, raising a finger as if to make an important point. “Hire some eager college kid, and, well, build them from the ground up. No bad habits to unlearn, no quirks from dealing with a prior boss. After a year or so, they’ll be like an extra arm.” I opened the door, preparing to show Mr. Liu out.

“I don’t know,” I said, “but it’s something to think about.” “Do more than think, Mr. Lane; this was a decision that increased my quality of life a hundred-fold,” he said, stepping out of the office and into the bustling hallway. “OK, I’ll think it over,” I said, extending my hand to Mr. Liu. “Always a pleasure.” “Likewise, Mr. Lane,” Mr. Liu said shaking my hand and giving me a smile and nod before starting off. I was conflicted. On the one hand, the thought of giving up any control over my day-to-day affairs made me sick to my stomach to consider. On the other, the disappointment in Olive’s voice was still ringing in my ears. But just before I was about to head back into my office, I caught sight of a young girl with chocolate-brown hair being led into Ms. Gardner’s office. Mrs. Gardner was our head of design, and I had heard they were looking to bring some new faces. Mr. Liu’s suggestion was as fresh as it could be in my mind. Maybe one of these interviewees would be what I needed for my own newly-opened position. It couldn’t hurt to look, I thought, heading down the hallway towards the office, ready to drop in.

3

I

was about as nervous as I could imagine being when the door to Mrs. Gardner’s office closed shut behind us. Already in a state of shock from hearing back from the company so quickly, my anxiety only compounded upon itself when I approached the massive, gleaming Financial District tower where Lane Technologies was headquartered. And it only got worse when I stepped off of the elevator and onto the main floor of the company, which buzzed like a beehive full of young professionals in immaculately tailored clothes, and all with the same expression of busy purpose on their uniformly attractive faces. And once I met Mrs. Gardner, the head of the design department and who I’d be interviewing with, I knew I was in over my head. In a crisp, dark green business suit and her hair coiffed in a style that likely cost half my rent to pull off, she was the picture of middle-aged professionalism. I was wearing the offthe-rack interview clothes that my Dad had bought for me after graduation, and felt every bit the Midwestern hayseed. “Come in, Ms. Kimble,” said Mrs. Gardener in an upper-class Manhattan accent, “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.” “Thanks,” I said, holding my portfolio bag close. “I’m, um, looking forward to interviewing.”

Two seconds in and I was already tripping over my words. Great. The office was beautiful and spacious, with a spectacular view of Lower Manhattan and tastefully-appointed with modern, yet elegant furniture. On the walls were a handful of framed pictures of 20th-century German modernist advertising. Mrs. Gardner took a seat at her jet-black desk and gave me a quick, appraising look. “From Des Moines, huh?” she said, looking over the copy of my resume that I had handed over to her. “Um, yeah,” I said, my voice already shaking. “Here in the ‘big city’.” I winced at how cliché I was being, then grew nervous at the idea that she might see how nervous I was. “Well, I took a look at your portfolio on your website,” said Mrs. Gardener. “And your work is good. A little inexperienced, very ‘justgraduated,’ but shows potential.” I felt myself relax a little bit. “But, I must say, we have some candidates applying for the job who are, well, exceedingly qualified. Graduates from Pratt, NYU, you know. And they’d all kill for a spot at a company like this.” Yeah, rich kids with connections. I know. “So, out of all of them, why should I hire you?” “Well,” I said, my body tightening up again, “I’ve been following Lane Technologies since I was a sophomore. The work you all have done here, it’s, well, amazing. Everyone at my school lived the print ads you’ve put out. Stop complimenting them, I thought to myself, they know all of this already. “And, um, I just think that I’d like to be a part of, um, what’s going on here. I think I could really, um, add some good stuff to the department. “Good stuff?” “Good stuff!?” As soon as the last word left my mouth I wanted to shrink to the size of an ant and drop into the space behind the cushions of the expensive chair I was

sitting in. And looking over Mrs. Gardner’s face, I could tell she was nonetoo-impressed by anything that had just come out of my mouth. “Hmm, I see,” she said, sitting up in her chair and looking as though she was going to send me off right then. “I thi-“ A sharp rapping at the office door cut her off, and she looked up, an expression of surprise and annoyance on her face, as though galled that anyone would bother her during an interview. “Who is it?” she asked, her voice taking on a prim tone. Then the door opened, and I felt the presence of someone else in the room. “Oh, hello Mr. Lane,” said Mrs. Gardner, bolting to her feet, a warm, compliant expression on her face. Lane? I thought, quickly turning in my seat. It was that Mr. Lane. When I was a sophomore in college, my friends and I loved to look over the all the latest design magazines and websites, especially the ones from New York. Des Moines is a great city, but not exactly an artistic Mecca. Well, one day, while poring over the latest stuff from Lane Technologies, I caught a glimpse of a suited man standing near a large, framed printing of one of the earliest ads for Lane Technologies. My eyes shot to the man in the picture like they were pulled by magnetic force. He was tall, with a head of coal-colored hair in a slicked-back, wet style. His face was about the most gorgeous face that I’d ever seen on a man. As I pulled the picture closer to my eyes, I looked at his expression with my eyes wide and mouth gaping; I just couldn’t believe that a man could be that beautiful. His eyes were dark green, like radiant emeralds. His nose was slim, in a perfect sloping angle, and his lips were full, wide and red, twisted on one side into a knowing smirk. And on him was a designer suit that his obviouslymuscular body was just poured into. I as I stared at the picture of the man, who the caption below identified as Trent Lane, CEO of Lane Technologies, I found myself wondering who, in a

more exact sense, this man was, what sort of life he lived, what type of beautiful women did he have dangling from his arm as he went out to the hottest parties in the city. And this man, Trent Lane, just happened to be the man standing in the door of the very room that I just happened to be sitting in, that same smirking expression on his painfully beautiful face.

4

I

had the girl being interviewed marked as a Midwestern transplant from the second I saw her; she had that wide-eyed expression on her face that everyone new to the city wore for the first year or so they were here, as if in a constant state of shock that the buildings of the city actually were that tall. “Mind if I sit in?” I asked, walking towards an open seat to Mrs. Gardener’s left, not waiting for a response. “Why, yes, of course, Mr. Lane,” said Mrs. Gardener, tensing up as she always did when she was around me. I settled into the seat and crossed my legs. No one said a word, both women seemingly waiting for a cue from me to proceed. With a “please, continue,” sweep of my hand, the interview continued on with an awkward lurch. “Um, well, as I was saying,” Mrs. Gardner said, composing herself, “your competition for this position is quite intense. There’s no shortage of freshfaced graduates who’d claw each other’s eyes out for this opportunity.” I wanted to roll my eyes, but I stopped myself. Mrs. Gardner was always trying to scare the new kids, for reasons I didn’t understand. Just look at the work they’ve done, see if it fits, and train them to do the job. That’s how I’d

done things for five years and it’s worked pretty well so far, if I did say so myself. “And that’s why I want this job. I know I can do it.” I looked the girl over as she spoke. She was pretty; extremely pretty, actually. Her hair was dark brown and straight, draped over her shoulders and parted in the middle. Her face was open and attractive, with big, blue eyes, a small, pert nose, and full lips. She was dressed modestly but professionally, in clothes that flattered her slim body, but clearly weren’t made for it. And if I hadn’t already guessed she was a Midwest transplant, her overeager statement about how she just knows she can do the job would’ve made that abundantly clear. “May I see your portfolio?” I asked. “Oh, sure, of course,” the girl said, her face breaking out in a healthy blush as she handed over the large, black portfolio folder, nearly dropping it. “Thank you,” I said, taking it from her. I popped open the top and pulled out a few pieces. Looking over them, I could see the clear influence of the past work of my design firm. It had been my decision to put such an emphasis on design and branding, and it had paid off dividends over the years- we had the awards to prove it. And one of the lessexpected results of this was having Midwestern girls show up with portfolios that lovingly imitated designs for advertisements intended to move headphones and tablets. But the work was rote, by-the-numbers. Though there was no shortage of skill and talent. And something else that struck me was how well-organized all of her work was. It was arranged and stored with careful precision, each section in her portfolio labeled and dated; when I replaced the work in the folder I knew without having to think exactly where it went. “This is good work; you’re very talented,” I said, handing the portfolio back to the girl.

“I’m Katie Kimble,” she said, blurting out the words. “Indeed you are, Katie Kimble,” I replied, her guilelessness causing a small smile to pull up the corner of one side of my mouth. “And I think we were just finishing up,” said Mrs. Gardener. “Oh?” I asked. I knew Mrs. Gardner was uncompromising- the sort that wasn’t afraid to toss a potential new hire to the side if they didn’t blow her away right out of the gate- but this seemed a little premature. And what’s more, something about this girl, the way she carried herself, her keen organization skills, and, well, just something I couldn’t put my finger on, made me want to not pass her by in the cavalier manner that Mrs. Gardner surely would if I were to get up and leave at this moment. “Yes, Mr. Lane,” said Mrs. Gardner before turning to Katie. “Ms. Kimble, it’s been a pleasure talking with you, and we’ll be in touch i-“ “Actually,” I said raising my finger, “would you mind if I borrowed Ms. Kimble for just a moment? I promise you can have her back when I’m done.” “Um, sure,” said Mrs. Gardner, no small amount of surprise in her voice. “Very good,” I said, rising from my chair. “Ms. Kimble, if you wouldn’t mind coming with me, my office is just down the hall.” “Oh, of course!” said Katie, her fair skin taking on an even deeper shade of red. She scrambled to collect her things and trailed behind me as I left the office. “Thank you, Liz,” I said without turning around as I shut the door to Mrs. Gardener’s office. Katie followed dutifully behind me, walking with ungainly steps in heels that she didn’t quite know how to wear. When we reached my office, Amelia shot her a look that I spotted as envy right away. “Please clear my schedule for the next thirty minutes, Amelia,” I said, opening the door to my office. “Ms. Kimble, after you.

With that, she walked inside with small, careful steps.

5

“N ervous” didn’t even begin to describe how I felt as I followed Mr. Lane

down the hallway, tottering after him like a puppy following him home, my portfolio and purse scooped up into my arms. And when he opened the door to his office, revealing a space that was easily bigger than my entire apartment, complete with a sweeping, majestic view of Lower Manhattan, the feeling of being utterly overwhelmed was complete. “Please, come in,” Mr. Lane said in a silky purr of a voice. Something about the way he spoke made me want to melt like a pad of butter under a heat lamp; he was somehow commanding and sensual all at the same time. “Oh, great, thank you,” I stammered out, barely able to speak. I had no idea how I would manage through not only another interview, but one with the CEO of the company. I sat down on a chair directly across from his desk, and Mr. Lane sat down at the tall-backed, brown leather chair behind it. He seemed at home sitting in the chair, and as he looked towards me, he had an air of easy, but stern confidence. “May I see a copy of your resume, Ms. Kimble?” “Yes, of course,” I said, tucking the hair on my right side behind my ear and plucking another resume out from the bound manila folder I had them stored in.

Mr. Lane took the sheet of paper from my hand and looked it over with careful eyes. I watched his green eyes move as he read the paper, and I could tell that not a single word went past him without being carefully analyzed and considered. Already, I could see how he was the type of person who was able to build a company like this from the ground up. “Nice resume; fairly impressive,” he said, setting the paper on his massive, ornate desk, a desk that was completely clear aside from a large iMac, a phone, and a potted bonsai tree. “Thank you,” I said, my voice coming out as thin and delicate as a paperthin sheet of china. “But as Mrs. Gardener said, likely not impressive enough to be brought on here.” I felt deflated once again. “But,” I asked, gathering my courage, “then why the interview?” “Mrs. Gardner likely saw the same talent that I saw, work that is clearly evident in your portfolio, and wanted to see if your personality would make a good fit for our organization.” “And it won’t?” Mr. Lane shook his head, his coal-black hair staying in place. “No,” he said, his voice a clear, blunt tone that I imagined would be necessary to affect as a CEO. “Those we bring on tend to be a little more, well, cutthroat. Maybe after you’d been in the city for a couple of years, put through the grinder and all that. A little time in the city is enough for even the most timid Midwesterner to develop some thickness to her skin.” I wasn’t sure if I should’ve felt insulted. “Then why am I here?” “Because, Ms. Kimble,” he said, “while you may be a little while off from our design department, there’s been a, well, another opening. A position that I just created, you see.” “Oh?” I asked. Though I was still nervous, I was now also intrigued. What

could he think I, specifically, was a good fit for? “I need a personal assistant. Someone to be my shadow, more or less. Someone to keep my affairs in order.” I felt my body loosen up. This seemed like a pretty reasonable job, nothing out of the ordinary. But his tone was so serious; I couldn’t tell if this is just how he always was, or if there was something more to it than what he had said. “But this wouldn’t be a standard nine-to-five personal assistant job,” he said, his green eyes settled on me. “When I say I would need a shadow, that’s what I mean. You would live at my home, attend to all of my business needs, when I need them.” “I see.” “And there’s one more thing.” Here we go. “I have a daughter. Her name is Olive. You wouldn’t be a nanny, but I might require you to watch after her from time to time.” This, I wasn’t expecting. A man like Mr. Lane seemed to be one of those people who lived on the clouds above the rest of us common folk. When imagining his life, I pictured important international business meetings, dates with well-travelled, beautiful women, and parties packed with celebrities. Not quiet nights home watching Dora the Explorer with a daughter. “And you think I would be a good fit for this job?” I asked. “I mean, I’m grateful that you would consider me, but why me?” “Call it a hunch,” he said, his voice as steady as always. “I didn’t get to where I am by distrusting my gut instincts. Not to mention, I can tell you have a penchant for organization.” He pointing a finger towards my immaculately-organized portfolio, and I felt my face go red again. “Salary would start at sixty-k, though I am amenable to bonuses and raises, should your performance be up to par. Full benefits. And, as I said, the job would be live-in, meaning I would have a room for you at my place, free of

charge.” It sounded too good to be true. Sure, there’d be a lot of work and responsibility, but nothing that I felt I couldn’t be up for. And a salary like that with no rent meant I’d have more money than I’d know what to do with. “You can, of course, have time to think this over. But I would need an answer by the end of the day- this is a position I’d like filled sooner than later.” I wanted to tell him that I needed some time. This was, after all, a big job, and not something I should be walking into lightly. But instead, I said this: “I accept.” He raised his thick, dark eyebrows. “I’m happy to hear that, Ms. Kimble, but are you sure you don’t need any time?” “No,” I said, my voice certain, a smile on my lips. “Call it a hunch.”

6

I

was excited, I was thrilled, I was nervous. I didn’t know what to expect. “Nine AM. Sharp.” That’s what he told me in that stern, commanding voice that I was sure I was going to be hearing a great deal in the future. Then he shook my hand, and sent me off. And just like that, I had a job. And a new place to live. With someone who was quite possibly the most handsome and wealthiest man I had known in my life. And his daughter. The fear hit me around when I transferred onto the seven train at Times Square. I was not only going to be responsible for this extremely important businessman’s affairs, but also his daughter? Sure, he said it would only be from time to time, but that was two jobs in one, even if it did come with a free place and a steady paycheck. I tried to tell myself that it was a challenge, and just like my dad told me over and over, challenges build character. That may be true, but it didn’t mean that I wasn’t more nervous than I had ever been in my life. I stepped out of the train and into the warm, early afternoon air. It was a

beautiful late spring day, and in New York, you learn pretty quickly that you only get about twenty days of decent weather a year, so you have to enjoy them while you can. To that end, I got off in Long Island City, south of where I lived in Astoria, planning to walk the rest of the way. I wanted to clear my head and at least try to process all that had just happened. But as much as I wanted to spend the walk mentally preparing for the day ahead, all I could think about was Mr. Lane. And about what kind of boss he was going to be. I kept imagining him standing in front of the window in his office that looked out onto the skyline, his frame outlined by the blue stretch of the morning sky and the span of buildings below, the twinkling of the Hudson River beyond. I kept thinking about how I felt under his gaze, how my skin seemed to spark with electricity every time he regarded me with his enchanting green eyes. And his perfect, full mouth, and how it would twist at the end in a sardonic smirk. I’d been in New York for a little while, but I’d been so busy with trying to find work that I didn’t even think about romance. But now, as though a debt were being paid, all I could think about was this man, this beautiful, powerful man. I came to my senses when I realized that I was already at my apartment. Strange how time can pass when you’re totally preoccupied. After trekking up the three stories to my apartment, I immediately set to work getting everything packed up. Mr. Lane said he’d send for my things tomorrow after I arrived, and I wanted to have everything ready. Though, truth be told, I was really just eager to get out of that apartment. A little while into packing, Kristina came home. The door to my room was open, and I could see her walk into the living room, a slight unsteadiness to her walk from the midday cocktails she’d undoubtedly already had. Ah, the life of the idle rich. Seeing that I was packing, she stopped by the room.

“Are you…like, packing, or something?” “Yep, I’m moving out tomorrow.” “Back to Omaha, I guess? City’s not for everyone; good you figured that out sooner than later.” I turned around, looking into her watery blue eyes with a look of confidence that I didn’t know I had. “Des Moines. Actually, a new job. I’m going to be a live-in personal assistant for a CEO.” Kristina shook her head, as though trying to get a handle on what I was saying. “What? Which CEO? What company?” she asked, now giving me her full attention. I guess her gold-digger alarm was going off. “Trent Lane, the CEO at-“ “Woah, whoa- are you serious? The Trent Lane?” I had to admit that I knew what I was saying when I told Kristina who I was working for; anyone in New York who’d at any point walked past a newsstand had seen Trent on the cover of one magazine or another, including any number of “30 under 30 business leaders” and “hottest bachelor’s in the city” lists. “Yep, that one,” I said, trying to hide my smile. “How the hell did you pull off a job with him? You know what, I don’t want to know.” She stood there with her fists in little red balls for a moment, trying to think of something to say. But she soon realized there were no words that could properly express how envious she was, and when she did, she let out a frustrated little squeal and stomped off to her room. I finished packing soon after. I didn’t have that much stuff, just my clothes, some books, and a few boxes of this and that. The rest of the day I spent relaxing as much as I could. I didn’t know what to expect tomorrow, but I felt like whatever it was, I’d need to be as ready as I’d ever been in my life.

And I was right.

7

I

have to admit, when Ms. Kimble left the office I had a twinge of doubt. She did seem a little green, to say the least. But she was eager and enthusiastic, and above all, I just had a good feeling about her. So, I put that nagging, doubting voice out of my mind. In my years as an entrepreneur, I’ve found that the voice of doubt, that voice that always tries so hard to talk you out of what decision you’re trying to make, is usually nothing more than the voice of uncertainty, always trying to get you to go back to what’s comfortable, known, and safe. In this case, I sensed what my inner doubt was trying to convince me was to keep control over everything, to not cede any bit of my life or affairs to someone else. But like before, the disappointment in Olive’s voice rang fresh and clear in my mind, and that was enough to cast my inner doubting aside. The rest of the work day went as planned. My office grew dark as the afternoon shifted into the evening, the orange and blue of the setting sun giving way to an inky-black sky, the lights of the city twinkling below. Checking my phone, I saw that it was getting on seven o’clock. Normally, I would’ve stayed later, asked the help to look after Olive a little longer, call her up and tell her I’d be bringing home take-out, but today I wanted to get back early. Olive was surely frustrated enough with me already, and on top of that, I was going to be

letting her know about the new arrangement with Ms. Kimble. Olive is a…precocious girl, to say the least. Quiet and studious, she takes after me in many ways. But unlike myself, her interests drift more towards the academic. When I was ten, I ran a small business buying candy bars and other treats unavailable during lunch from the local convenience store before lunch and selling them at marked-up prices to my classmates at the boy’s academy. Olive, on the other hand, would rather spend the days with her nose buried in a history book. But, although she didn’t seem to take after my entrepreneurial leanings, she was smart and ambitious, and I had great things in mind for her. Ever since her mother passed, however, she’s drifted further and further over the last few years into her studies. She just didn’t seem to be all that interested in friends, and playing, and other things that ten-year-old girls should spend their time with. I was fine with her being a bookworm, but I was determined not to stand by and let her drift into total social isolation. The rest of the evening went as well as I could expect, with me giving my usual apologies to Olive and her accepting them, though how genuinely she meant it was up for debate- it seemed more and more that she was less affected by my constant cancellations, which was worrying. I told her about the new arrangement with Ms. Kimble, and she seemed nonplussed. The next morning, I got up at five AM, my usual time, and went through my fitness routine, having a run along 5th Avenue, staying out a little longer than I normally would, letting the fresh morning air do its work on me. Olive had a half-day at school today, only having to go in for a few hours in the afternoon, which meant the day would work well for getting her introduced to Katie. At around eight forty-five, the low chime of a guest arrival sounded through the apartment. Ms. Kimble was early, which was a good sign. I was dressed and ready by that point, and decided to finish my coffee at the kitchen counter while she arrived. A few minutes later, the stainless-steel doors that led directly from the

elevator to my penthouse suite opened, revealing Ms. Kimble, who stood in the elevator with that same wide-eyed expression I was beginning to associate with her, the blue of her eyes bright and visible in the morning light that streamed into the apartment, a small, blue tote on the elevator floor at her side. “Ms. Kimble,” I said, getting up from the counter stool that I was sitting upon. “Welcome.” “This is, um, quite the place,” she said, still standing in the elevator. “Well,” I said, walking towards her while fastening the buttons of my black blazer, “I’m glad you like it. But I suggest you come in from the elevator, unless you’d rather be sent back down to the lobby when the doors close.” “Oh!” she exclaimed, snatching her tote off from the ground and stepping into the main space of the apartment, the heels of her black dress flats clicking against the tile floor and echoing out through the space, the sound crisp and bright over the jazz that I was playing on the Sonos system. “I trust your trip over was without incident?” I asked. I considered sending the car over for her, but decided that I’d rather leave her to her own devices this morning, to see what time she’d arrive. She didn’t disappoint. “Nothing out of the ordinary,” she said, her eyes still scanning my apartment. “I’ll be sending for your things this evening, assuming you still feel the job suits you at the end of the day.” She shook her head, as though realizing that she was gawking at the apartment when she should’ve been paying attention. “That would be great,” she said, looking at me, smiling a warm, professional smile of wide lips and no teeth. “Allow me,” I said, taking her tote from her. We walked through the space of the apartment, towards the hallway that would lead her to her room. “Let’s start this little orientation by showing you where you’ll be staying. I trust a view of Brooklyn is to your liking?”

“Yes,” she said, obviously trying to hide the excitement in her voice. “Brooklyn’s just fine.”

8

W

hen I looked up at the towering, high-rise condo where Mr. Lane lived, I couldn’t help but feel like I was in over my head. One of the new, pencil-thin luxury condos that were now springing up all across the Manhattan skyline, it seemed to stretch upwards forever into the sky. And he wasn’t just any old ultra-wealthy inhabitant of this particular building- he was all the way up top, in the penthouse. The lobby of the place was like a modern art museum, spacious, immaculate, and filled with both expensive art and natural light that poured in, illuminating the massive garden that sat in the middle of the place, itself topped off with a bubbling fountain. The man working the front desk -one of them, at least- looked at me with skepticism when I stepped in. I figured that when you associate with the elite all day, you learn to be able to spot a mere middle-class girl from a mile away. Maybe it was my H&M blazer, maybe it was my shoes whose cost was only in the double-digits, but he quickly swooped in next to me and asked me who I was looking for, and by his tone, he was seemingly certain that I was in the wrong building. “I have an appointment with Mr. Lane,” I said, still in awe of the luxury around me.

“Ah, Ms. Kimble!” he said, his voice now eager and accommodating. “Right this way.” He led me towards one of the elevators, that same eager smile still plastered on his face when the doors slide shut. Despite the apartment being on the top floor, the trip took only a few seconds. And when the doors slid open again, my jaw dropped. To say that Mr. Lane’s apartment was the nicest that I’d ever seen would be the understatement to end all understatements. Even calling it a “palace” wouldn’t have done it justice. The main floor of the apartment was a wideopen space, with the kitchen, dining area, and living room visible from where I stood. The walls of the apartment were all glass, and as Mr. Lane led me from the elevator I could see that they provided a nearly three-hundred-and-sixtydegree view of the entire city. Looking out, I could see everywhere, from the furthest-east edges of Queens on one side, to the endless stretches of New Jersey on the other. “Allow me,” said Mr. Lane, taking my tote and snapping me out of my slack-jawed view-gawking. I at least had the good sense to compose myself around him; the last thing I wanted was to turn from gawking at the view of the apartment to gawking to the view of, well, him. “You’ll have the southeast wing,” he said, leading me down a wide hallway lined with tasteful modern art. “I’m sorry, ‘wing’?” “Yes,” he said, a small smirk crossing his face, as though now aware of how what he just said might sound to someone used to living in a bedroom about as big as a sock drawer. “It’s just Olive and I, and we’ve got more than enough space for the two of us.” We passed a few doors, and Mr. Lane pointed them out as we went. “Bathroom here, though there’s another door that connects directly to your bedroom. There’s study down at the end, though I suppose you could use it for whatever you’d like. And here’s the bedroom.”

He opened a set of double doors, revealing a spacious, yet cozy bedroom. There was a large, comfy-looking queen-sized bed against the right-most wall, and a set of modern-looking furniture, including a dresser and a desk. The outer wall was glass, just like the rest of the apartment, and opened up to a small balcony. The view was over Brooklyn, as promised, and the entire borough was visible, all the way down to Coney Island. “You needn’t cram everything into the dresser; there’s a spare walk-in closet just over there.” “Oh, great,” I said, keeping as cool as I possibly could at what he just said. In New York, where space is at a premium, saying you have a spare walk-in closet isn’t too different than saying you have a spare pile of diamonds in your drawer, or an extra Mercedes kicking around in the garage. “But you’ll have to put off getting settled for now; I’d like to introduce you to Olive.” “Can’t wait to meet her,” I said, hiding my anxiety. Don’t get me wrong, I like kids just fine. But I never had that lightness and ease that most women seemed to have around them. And besides that, wasn’t just any kid, she was my new boss’s kid. I know how capricious kids can be; what if she just decided on first sight that she hated me? Mr. Lane set my bag on the bed, the weight of it sinking into the plush, soft sheets, and led me back down into the main room, then down another hallway. “This is Olive’s wing, though don’t think you’re unwelcome to enter.” We made our way down the hallway, which seemed to be set up just like mine. “Olive tends to spend her time in her study; she’s a bookish sort of girl,” he said When he opened the door at the end of the hall, he revealed a small study, lined with bookshelves, with scattered piles of books here and there. An iMac was on a desk in the corner, and a large, plush chair was in the middle of the room, facing the window.

“Olive, come here and meet Ms. Kimble.” There was no response. “Olive, come here now,” said Mr. Lane, his tone fatherly and firm. A sigh sounded from the other side of the chair, and underneath it, I spotted a small pair of low-top Chuck Taylors land on the ground. Then, from behind the high-back of the chair emerged a petite, slim girl of around ten. She was wearing a pair of skinny, dark blue jeans and a fitted t-shirt of some band that I’d never heard of. Her hair was a bright red, and tied in a thick braid that was draped over her shoulder. Her face was pretty, in a pre-teen way, and on her face was a big pair of black-rimmed glasses. Her hand held the book she was reading, one finger stuck in between the pages, holding the spot that she wanted to get back to right away. “Ms. Kimble, this is my daughter, Olive.” I walked over to Olive, and extended my hand. “Hi, Olive. My name’s Katie.” Olive looked at my hand with a skeptical expression, as though I were trying to pull fast one on her. “Hi,” she said in a terse tone, taking my hand, giving it a quick shake, and dropping it. “What’re you reading?” I asked, pointing at the book in her hand. “Nothing. Just something about the third crusades. You probably wouldn’t be into it.” “Oh, cool,” I said, reeling from what I thought was probably the answer I least expected her to give. “Can I go back to my book?” asked Olive, looking past me and up at Mr. Lane. “Sure,” he said, a trace of frustration in his voice. “Come, Ms. Lane,” he said leading me out of the room. Great, I thought to myself as we walked back towards the main room of the apartment, less than a minute and I managed to get that kid not to like me.

Little did I know, that was going to be the least of my troubles for the day.

9

T

he first meeting between Ms. Kimble and Olive went about as well as could be expected. However, I could tell that Ms. Kimble seemed shaken by her inability to win over a moody ten-year-old girl within a minute, as though her job were resting on whether or not Olive loved her from the start. No; what her employment would rest on was the other work I had planned for her. “Like I said, she’s a bookish girl,” I said, leading Ms. Kimble back towards the main room of the apartment. “Don’t worry about hitting it off with her right away.” I could tell these words put Ms. Kimble at ease. “But the work of the day is what I’d like you to get started on right away,” I led her to the kitchen table, where a Macbook that I purchased for her was sitting, opened and ready. “This will be your work computer. Only use it for work-related business. If you need to use another computer, there’s the desktop in the office.” “Oh, I’ve got my own,” she said. “Very good. Your first task is to get my next week into the computer. My papers detailing my appointments are here, and I want them entered down to the minute in the computer. Pay special attention to the appointments I have

with Olive; those need to be highlighted, with notifications schedule that will go directly to my phone on the day of. You’ll have an hour to get this taken care of, then we’ll be off to the office. Any questions?” Her face seemed to take on a slight shade of green. This meeting was likely a little overwhelming for her as is, let alone adding a workload on top of it. But I was interested to see how she performed under less-than-ideal circumstances. “Yes, I think so.” “Then I’ll leave you to it. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen. My office is down that hall if you need anything.” As I walked down the hallway, I couldn’t help but notice that I was very interested to see how she did. She was overwhelmed, sure, but that’s par for the course for a recent college graduate. The real question would be if she could shake out her nerves and get the job done; that’s what I was interested in. But as I opened the door to my office and stepped inside, a troubling thought entered my mind. I found myself thinking about Ms. Kimble in a different context. Not simply as my assistant, but in a…more physical manner. Her face, fair-skinned and bright, and her eyes, blue and clear, appeared in my thoughts without prompting, as tough my unconscious mind were insisting that I consider them. I shook them out, focusing my thoughts instead on the work I needed to have finished before I went into the office. But they returned. This time, they weren’t limited to just her face. I found my mind’s eye drifting downward, long her body, wondering what she looked like underneath her thin, white blouse and pencil skirt. And what her body might feel like. This wouldn’t do. I focused, on other thoughts, clearing my mind and pushing out this nonsense about my new assistant. I made myself a cup of coffee and walked over to the window, choosing to think about the day ahead instead of these more puerile thoughts that were seemingly invading my mind. And it worked. There was a lot to do, and Ms. Kimble was going to be

essential to getting the necessary business taken care of if the week was to run smoothly. My meeting with Mr. Liu the previous day was only one step in the long process of securing manufacturing, and each step would need to be handled with care and precision. Sitting at my desk, I pulled up the security camera from where Ms. Kimble was sitting. Normally, I would never bother with such an invasive maneuver, but I did want to see if she was actually at work, or if the pressure had gotten to her and she was running around like the proverbial chicken with its head cut off. A few taps on my computer later, and the footage was brought up. Far from seeming overwhelmed, Ms. Kimble was seated at the table, a cup of coffee to her right and the computer in front of her. She was looking back and forth between the papers and the computer, typing with a look of intense concentration on her face. Good, I thought, she’s not messing around. But now that she was on the screen in front of me, my eyes drifted once again. This time, to the straight brown hair that she wore in simple tresses that lay draped over her shoulders. This was getting absurd. I closed the window of the camera footage and attended to more serious matters. Before too long, the hour allotted passed, and I was ready to get to the office to get some real work done. I turned off the computer, gathered my belongings and headed into the kitchen, eager to appraise Ms. Kimble’s work. “Finished?” I asked, walking to the coffee machine and pouring myself another cup for the road. “Yes, I think so,” she said, making a few last-minute keystrokes. “Let me see.” She turned the computer towards me so that I could get a good look. I clicked through the necessary programs, checking to see how accurately she had input the information.

It was fine. Not amazing, not bad- just fine. And I knew it could be better. “Unacceptable,” I said, turning away from the screen. “W...what?” she asked, shocked. “Send me today’s appointments; they’ll have to do for now. But for the rest, I want you to do it all again. Don’t simply use the templates; I could do that myself.” Ms. Kimble said nothing. Instead, she slowly turned the computer back towards herself. “Now, shall we?” I asked, picking up my suitcase and gesturing towards the door.

10

T

he next few days were an insane blur. Ever since that first morning, when Mr. Lane asked -no, told- me to redo the perfectly good work that I had done, he never seemed to let up. Nothing was good enough. Nothing seemed to please him. But I tried and tried anyway. I couldn’t figure out what I was doing wrong. I made sure all of Mr. Lane’s appointments were in order, and made sure that everything I sent to him was checked, double-checked, and checked again. I followed him like the shadow he asked me to be, paying close attention to his conversations and making everything of note spoken aloud was written down and input into his notes on the computer. But still, it wasn’t good enough. And Olive was another story. I spent a few hours here and there when Mr. Lane asked, but she showed exactly zero interest in me. Anything I said was answered with a polite nod, the kind you’d get from someone who wanted to appear to be paying polite attention but not really caring if you believed they were. For someone her age, she seemed to be at an advanced level of icy indifference. I asked her about her books, I asked her about her hobbies, and I asked her about anything else she liked to do for fun. But rarely did I get anything other

than a quick, one-word reply. To be honest, however, I didn’t mind. Spending time with Olive amounted to little more me being in the same room as her, and it was a nice break from Mr. Lane’s perfectionism. He relayed nothing about her and I’s time together, so I assume that I was doing something right. Still, it’d be nice to get the girl to open up. But on Friday, the end of the first week, things took a turn for the worse. We were in Mr. Lane’s office, and he was in the middle of a call with a client. They two of them were having a friendly back-and-forth, going over business matters that I couldn’t pretend to understand. Ignoring the business jargon, I kept my ears open to take down relevant times, dates, names- all the things that a good personal assistant keeps track of. But during the call, the prim voice of Amelia, his secretary (who he was looking to get rid of now that I was working for him, I might add), piped in through the intercom. “Mr. Lane, Mr. Liu is on line two.” Mr. Lane’s face brightened with a look of surprise that I rarely saw him express. “Why do I have a call from Mr. Liu scheduled for while I have a call with Mrs. Sanchez?” he asked, his finger on the “hold” button. I looked over my notes at a frantic pace, going through my computer and seeing where the mistake could’ve been. Sure enough, I found it. Somehow, I had accidentally scheduled the two calls at the same time. I had no idea how I did it; I was usually so careful with the information, and checked and double checked it before sending it to Mr. Lane. “Mr. Lane, I’m so sorry,” I said, still looking at the information, for fear of making eye contact. “Not a word. Go back to the apartment now while I sort this mess out.” Part of me wanted to protest, but another part of me just wanted to get the

hell out of there as fast as possible. I scooped by belongings up, and rushed out of the office. And as soon as I stepped out, I could see Amelia looking at me a smug smirk on her pretty face. “Better luck next time,” she said. Still flustered, I managed to shoot her a dirty look before I dashed off the elevator. The trip down the building and to the subway was a blur. Tears welled in my eyes as I rushed down the sidewalk to the otrain station, and as much as I tried not to, I sobbed a little bit. I spent ride on the train full of anxiety. I was sure Mr. Lane was going to fire me; there’s no way he’d let a fuck-up like that slide, not with how demanding he was. As soon as I got back to the apartment, I collapsed in the main room on one of the overstuff couches and burst into wet, sloppy tears. I couldn’t hold it back any longer. The pressure of the week, the workload, and the stress of this mistake just on top of me. I started to feel like I’d bitten off more than I could chew. Then, on top of everything, I heard a pair of small footsteps on the floor. Looking up with tears in my eyes, I saw Olive standing at the entry to her hallway, her sharp features arranged in a careful, analytical expression, her red hair in a wild do, framing her face. “Let me guess,” she said, walking towards me. “Dad yelled at you.” I knew I should’ve lied, said it was something else. After all, who knows what she might say to Mr. Lane? But instead, I simply nodded. “Don’t worry about it; that’s just how he is,” she said, coming over to where I was sitting and taking u the seat next to me. “He’s nice with me, but I’ve seen how he is with his employees.” I couldn’t help but feel a little relieved. “He’ll probably chew you out, but that’s it. I wouldn’t worry too much about it.” It was strange listening to Olive talk. She spoke with the sort of poise and calm that you typically only found in adults, and even then, only certain adults.

“Thanks,” I said, wiping away my tears. “But wait, why aren’t you in school?” She shrugged. “I get bored there. All my work was done, so I cut my last class. It’s not like they care; I still get A’s on all the tests.” I wanted to scold her, but I wasn’t in the mood. “I’m hungry. You want to get a burger?” I was shocked, to put it lightly. The girl who I couldn’t get to say a word to me this entire week was now not only consoling me, but inviting me out for lunch? “Sure,” I said, letting myself smile. “That sounds good.” It really did. We went down to a corner bodega, one of the few left in this area of fancy condos and boutique stores, and ordered a couple of bacon cheeseburgers. And all the while, Olive went on and on about what she was reading, what she was interested in, her thoughts on the world- everything. She loved Roman history, for one, and had just been getting into HG Wells. She was bright and precocious, and was unlike any other kid that age I’d met. We ate our burgers in Gramercy Park, taking in the warm, afternoon sun. After a time, we went back to the apartment. “OK, I need to get back to work, kiddo,” I said, setting up my laptop on the kitchen table. “That’s fine; I’ll read in here.” She disappeared into her room for a moment, and came back with a book in her hands. She sat down on the chair opposite of me, opened her book, and began reading while I worked. The rest of the afternoon went by like this, with the day gradually shifting into the evening. Then, as the sun dipped behind the horizon, I heard the sound of the elevator coming up. Mr. Lane was back, and my stomach dropped in anticipation of his arrival.

11

T

he elevator doors slid open, revealing Mr. Lane. In his hands were his briefcase, and a white, plastic bag that looked to be filled with takeout food. He stepped into the apartment, stopping at the head of the table, looking over the scene of Olive and me, her reading, me working. “Olive, can I speak with Ms. Kimble alone, please?” he asked, though his stern voice barely rose at the end of the sentence. “Sure,” she said, sticking her finger into her book and closing it. As she left, he gave me a knowing look that seemed to say “don’t worry about it.” Olive left, and Mr. Lane sat down at the table where his daughter was just sitting. My anxiety shifted from a mild feeling of sickness to something like a hot coal sitting at the base of my stomach. “About your error this afternoon,” he said. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Lane,” I said my words coming out in a messy blurt. I knew I shouldn’t have spoken, but I was convinced that I was making the case for me keeping my job. “I know I messed up, and I’m so sorry. I could’ve sworn I double-checked everything, but I must’ve ben sloppy, and I’m so sorry.” He raised his palm, his eyes closed. “What I was going to say was that you weren’t responsible.”

I looked up at him, my eyes open wide in shock. His face was just as handsome and impassive as ever. “What?” “I went over who accessed my files recently. I found that Amelia, my secretary, my former secretary, that is, rescheduled an appointment in order to make it seem as though you were sloppy in your date keeping.” Relief washed over me like a cool wave. I wanted to melt in my seat. “But I’m pleased to see that your reaction wasn’t to make excuses, but to take responsibility. That’s a harder trait to come by than you might think.” I wanted to say “thank you,” or something, but I was too stunned to speak. “I’ve brought some takeout home. Grand Sichuan- it some fairly decent Chinese, though I took the liberty of picking out the food.” I wondered if I could even manage an appetite after what had just happened. “Please go get Olive, and let her know that we’re eating.” I walked to Olive’s library in a daze. “Everything OK?” she asked from her usual chair. “Yeah, just a mix-up.” “See? What did I tell you? I let her know that we were eating, and once she heard it was Grand Sichuan, she happily followed. Mr. Lane had already set the table and put out the food, with a couple glasses of red wine for him and I and a can of La Croix for Olive. We got right into it, and though I had eaten a big, greasy burger earlier, I tore into the food with abandon. It was starting to get into the later part of the evening, and the sun had long since gone down. Olive went back to her study to finish her book, and I went back to a little more work that needed doing before the day was out. Eventually, Mr. Lane sent Olive off to bed. As he reentered the main room, I expected him to blow past me and head back into his office. Instead, he asked

me the last question that I would’ve expected him to ask: “Care to join me for a glass of wine?” I was feeling a little bit of a buzz from the glass I had at dinner, and another did sound nice. But still, I wasn’t expecting Mr. Lane to mix business with pleasure in such a way. He invited me out onto the wide stretch of the terrace. It was covered in grass, with a small pool and hot tub; another set of luxuries only available to the super-wealthy in this city. We walked over to the railing and looked out, the spectacular view swirling around us. Sipping our wine, we enjoyed the evening in silence. But as my glass emptied, I found that I was drawing closer to Mr. Lane- and he was letting it happen. Then, without warning, he took my chin in the crook of his finger, turned it toward him, and leaned in, pressed a deep, wet kiss on my lips. The wine running hot through my veins, I leaned into the kiss, standing up on my tip-toes as he continued to kiss me, his tongue eventually slipping past my lips and exploring my mouth with slow drags against it. It seemed wrong -he was my boss, after all- but I had been attracted to him since I saw his face on a magazine cover years ago, and here he was, kissing me like I’d never been kissed before. I let him take the lead, and he was more than happy to do just that. His strong, firm hand found its way up my shirt, and I savored the feeling of it against the soft skin of my stomach. His other hand moved from where it was on the nape of my neck, and moved to my buttons, undoing them one by one, eventually pulling off my shirt, leaving me standing there in nothing but my bra and skirt. He then moved his hands behind my thighs, and lifted me up, easily taking me into his arms, and placed me against the railing, kissing me deeply all the while. My own hands moved to his belt, unbuckling it as quickly as I could. I didn’t know if he was planning on fucking me, but at that moment, I needed him

inside me more than anything. And the feeling seemed to be mutual. Pulling up my skirt, he grabbed the waistband of my panties and pulled them down, letting them dangle from my heeled foot. I finished the job of getting his pants open, feeling his hard cock through the fabric, and pulled them down with a quick jerk, his prick springing out. I only caught glimpses of it through our kisses, but I could see that it was long, thick, and rock-hard. Taking his cock by the base, he plunged it into me. I was already wet as hell, and his cock slid deep into me quickly and easily. I let out a sharp gasp as he sheathed himself within me, and for a moment, I felt like I might be unable to handle the sheer pleasure that was rushing through my body. Trent began pounding me hard, rocking my body with deep, full thrusts, burying himself deep within me over and over again. I gripped onto his strong, broad shoulders for support as he fucked me, and I could already feel and orgasm priming itself, getting ready to explode. “Cum in me, please cum in me,” I said, my voice a sigh. His pace had quickened, and I could tell he was getting close. I wanted nothing more than to feel him empty himself inside of me. Trent began to grunt with each thrust, and my gasps turned into small shrieks as my orgasm moved to the brink. Then, finally, it came. The feeling of his cock in me send a white-hot orgasm rushing through my body, making my limbs feel alight with unbelievable ecstasy. Trent let out one last grunt, then came. I imagined his cock shooting inside of me, and the feeling of him filling me with his cum made my own orgasm finish hard. Eventually, his thrusting slowed, and I could feel the first cool trickle of his cum down my thigh. He held me like that for moments, his head resting on my shoulder, both of us regaining our breath as we stood on the terrace in the warm, evening air.

12

L

ast night was a mistake; I realized that immediately. I don’t know what I was thinking, having sex with an employee. What a foolish thing to do. I have no idea what came over me; best I can piece together is that between the wine, my attraction to her that I was trying to ignore, and the stresses of the day swirled into a perfect storm that that caused me to slip, resulting in me acting upon impulses that I should’ve known better than to indulge. After our…tryst, I composed myself, told Ms. Kimble that I needed to attend to some business, and, after helping her gather her clothing, excused myself for the evening. It was less chivalrous that I would’ve normally done, just leaving her there like that, but I was quickly coming to my senses and needed some solitude in which to think. In my study, I prepared a small glass of single-malt scotch and thought. I didn’t want to fire here; aside from how that would look, I realized that I not only was she a quality hire, I actually enjoyed her company. And the fact that she was so willing to spend time with Olive, even getting her to open up, well, all of this amounted to an employee who was a wise decision to bring on board. But I couldn’t let her think that we were now somehow…involved. I don’t

mix business with pleasure, and though Ms. Kimble was a charming, lovely young woman -extremely charming and lovely, to be precise- I couldn’t have a girlfriend-slash-personal assistant; it would be unheard of. So, what to do? As I sipped my drink and looked out onto the evening lights of the city, I considered my situation. After a time, I realized that the best course of action would be to quickly and forcefully reestablish the employee/employer barrier that was breached our little rendezvous. I tossed off the rest of my drink and headed off to bed, ready to put the events of the evening behind me. But my sleep was restless. The next morning, after my fitness routine, I dressed and went into the kitchen. Ms. Kimble and Olive were sitting at the counter, Olive showing Ms. Kimble one thing or another in her book. The sight pleased me, and I was happy to see that Olive was opening up a little. As I walked in, they both stopped what they were doing and turned their attention to me. “Morning,” said Ms. Kimble, her voice a little sunnier and familiar than I would’ve liked, a smile on her face. “Good morning,” I said, my own voice crisp and professional as I tied my tie. “What’s on the agenda for today?” asked Ms. Kimble. “Work,” I said. “We have another meeting with the Canadian distributer today, and plenty to do after that.” “Oh,” she said, her voice sinking, as though hoping I would’ve engaged in a little light-hearted banter. “I made eggs.” “I’ll have something in the car, thank you,” I said, pulling the knot of my tie tight. “Sure, ok,” she said. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Ms. Kimble’s face fall a few degrees. It didn’t please me to do this, but I wanted to make sure the message was loud and clear, with nothing for her to grab onto as proof of our

relationship being anything other than professional from this point on. I sent Olive off with a kiss when her ride arrived, and when she left, I told Ms. Kimble to get ready to leave for the office. It was easy to tell that the words “so, about last night…” were dying to jump loose from her lips. But, thankfully, she held back. The ride to the office was uneventful, as I was in the middle of a car during the entirety of the drive. “Please transcript the following phone calls,” I said, placing a flash drive next to Ms. Kimble as she sat in my office, already busy typing up some memos. “Sure, OK,” she said, a small amount of frustration slipping into her tone. “I don’t know when I’m going to get to it before the meeting, though.” “Just get it done.”

13

I

tried to stay strong as I worked through the assignments that Trent had given me. But it was just so much to get done, even without the added stress of him absolutely refusing to mention what happened last night. He must have thought I was stupid, that I was going to wake up the next morning with a head full of naive, childish fantasies, thinking that we were going to run off and get married or something. I could tell right when we walked in, his face stern and icy, what was going to happen. Or, what wasn’t going to happen. I’m not the most experienced girl, but I knew the situation. And the work was just to make sure the message was read loud and clear. Well, Mr. Lane, it was. I got that he wanted me to not forget that our relationship was business, but it was just so much work. And though the logical part of my brain was being realistic about what was happening, that didn’t make it any easier for me. I just wanted to cry, to let it all out, to allow myself to turn into a big, weepy mess, just for a little while, just for enough time to get everything out of my system. But I knew Mr. Lane returning to the office only to see me sobbing like a big baby wouldn’t exactly cause him to view me in the most professional light. I put my head down, both literally and figuratively, and plowed through the

work. I don’t know how I did it; I guess I was able to focus my frustrated energy into it, giving some kind of superhuman transcription powers. And as I was working, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about last night. It was absolutely incredible to be with Trent -almost like a girlhood dream coming true- and something about the way he was with me…I don’t know. It seemed as though he was letting his façade of constant professionalism and stoicism slip, like he needed to bond with someone in such a close way that he couldn’t help himself. I’d been with the Lanes for only a week or so, but it was long enough to see that Trent’s world was comprised of Olive and work. And that’s it. Sure, he got drinks with clients, but that seemed to be the extent of his social life. It might’ve been me overthinking my importance, but I was starting to wonder if the reason he brought me on board was beyond simply needing someone to keep his affairs in order. “It’s done?” Mr. Lane asked, coming back into the office after the time had flown by. “All done,” I said, flashing a beaming smile, as if to say “I know exactly what you’re doing.” Hey, no reason two couldn’t play at this game. And that’s the way the rest of the week went. Before I knew it, it was Friday, and work was done. We took the car back home, and came back to Olive sitting at the kitchen table. “Hey, guys,” she said, not looking up from her book. “Ms. Kimble,” said Trent, undoing his tie, “I’d like to ask you to spend the evening with Olive, if that wouldn’t be an imposition.” “Not an imposition in the slightest,” I said, smiling at Olive, who returned the look. “What d’ya say to a trip to the Natural History Museum?” “Yes, please!” she said, a wide smile breaking out across her freckled face.” “Very good,” said Mr. Lane.

“Might I ask what the gentleman has planned for the evening?” I said, pouring myself a cup of coffee. “I have a date.” The feeling I had next was something like an ice-cold rock being dropped from a great height directly into the pit of my stomach. “Oh, I see,” I said, hoping that the strange, jealous feeling that was rushing through me wasn’t visible on my face. “Yes. I’ll be leaving in a half hour or so. My credit card is on the table; use it for whatever you need tonight. And with that, he left the main room. I felt disoriented, and almost sick. And the most frustrating part was that I wasn’t preparing to feel this way. The last week went smoothly, and it’s not as though I’d been letting some kind of crush develop only to have it snatched away from me; I knew what was going on. Still, I felt miserable- just terrible. I told Olive that I needed to change, and dashed off to my room, tears in my eyes. I felt so stupid, so naïve. Making sure the door was shut behind me, I collapsed onto the bed and let the tears flow. After about five minutes, I lifted my face from the pillow, the soft, white fabric now damp. I went to the bathroom, washed my face, put on some fresh makeup, and changed into something more casual. Taking one last look at myself in the mirror, I appeared at least somewhat presentable. “Ready to go?” I asked Olive, returning to the living room. “Yes. Can we see the Sumerian exhibit first?” she asked, her voice weighted with consideration, as though it were something she had been internally debating. “There’s something I wanted to compare to one of my texts.” “Why, yes we can.” And at that moment, Trent returned from his room. He was dressed in a sharp, perfectly-tailored suit that fit his body to perfection; I couldn’t help but

imagine what he looked like underneath it. Although, now I didn’t have to imagine. “You ladies have a fun night,” he said, stepping into the elevator. I watched the doors close and the elevator begin its downward descent. It was at this moment that I realized the enormity of the situation that I had gotten myself into. And I didn’t know if I’d be able to handle it.

14

I

f there was any remaining hope that something was to become of Ms. Kimble and I’s night together, my plans for the evening should’ve more than dashed them. She had behaved over this last week, -no emotional outbursts at work, which is what I was fearing- but the announcement that I was going out on a date would hopefully serve to demonstrate our tryst was a onenight only sort of situation. I didn’t take any pleasure out of putting the kibosh on any sort of romantic hopes that she might’ve had, but I did enjoy Ms. Kimble as both a coworker, and an addition to the family of sorts, and I didn’t want any romantic entanglements wrecking what was shaping up to be an otherwise fantastic arrangement. I was meeting my date for the evening at a restaurant in the East Village, at some sort of high-end ramen noodle place. But first, I needed to stop by the Upper East Side to pick up my date. The woman that I was seeing this evening was someone that a client suggested might be a good fit for me. The client, an executive from a smaller technology company that I was looking to acquire, pried a little more into my personal life than I would’ve liked. Noting Ms. Kimble’s striking good looks, he asked if she and I were an item. I quickly told him no, and that got him talking about how a young man like myself should be playing the field. I wasn’t

much for random flings, but I figured it would do me good to take a woman out for the evening. Not to mention, sending the message to Ms. Kimble to not keep the flame burning for me. I hadn’t yet met the young woman that I was taking out for the evening, but according to my client, she was a “real looker,” and had “legs for days.” Additionally, she was a dancer of some sort who was performing with a troupe that did some sort of dance and music performance routine. I’m not much for the arts, however, but I was looking forward to meeting her all the same. We arrived at my date’s place, which was an impressive townhome in the Upper East Side. I asked my driver to stop in front, and I stepped out into the evening air, which had a surprising chill to it, considering the month. I ascended the gray stone stairs and gave the door a quick rap. Soon after, my date opened it and greeted me. To say she was “beautiful” would’ve been quite the understatement. She was an exotic beauty, with olive-colored skin and hair that was so dark and thick that it almost seemed to have the appearance of oil. Her features were sharp, with tall cheekbones and small, full lips. Her eyes were a deep brown, and as she stood before me in a form-fitting black dress, I could see that her figure was certainly worth my client going on about. “Hello, Mr. Lane,” she said, her voice rich with an accent that hit my ear as Russian. “My name is Nadia Alenchko. A pleasure to meet you.” “The pleasure is all mine,” I said, taking her hand and giving it a gentle kiss. I led her to the car, opening the door first and letting her in. But as she stepped into the car, a troubling thought crept into my mind: I found myself comparing this woman to Ms. Kimble. I noted that this woman, Nadia’s, beauty was more the sharp angles of a supermodel, whereas Ms. Kimble’s beauty was more classical, with fair skin, red lips, and blue eyes that always seemed to sparkle. Then, my mind drifted to the night we had our tryst, and the sight of her beautiful body, nude in the moonlight, filled my mind and caused my heart to

flutter in an odd, light manner. I put these invasive thoughts out of my mind as I let Nadia in the car. There was a bottle of champagne chilling in the bar, and I poured the two of us a glass for the trip down to the restaurant. I let her do the talking, and she eagerly indulged herself, speaking at great length about her job, her life in New York, what sort of things she liked to do- no subject seemed to go undiscussed. The chatter didn’t stop once we got to the restaurant, nor when the two bowls of overpriced udon ramen were placed before us. Like many young, wealthy women in the city, her life seemed to be comprised of shopping and being seen at whatever trendy clubs and restaurants she determined would result in the highest social cachet on whatever social media she preferred. And as she spoke, more thoughts of Ms. Kimble entered my mind. I began to think about how her nose scrunched up when she was taking dictation, how her thin, brown eyebrows would knit in concentration. I thought about her easy way with Olive, how she somehow managed to get that girl to open up. I worried that it wouldn’t happen again since her mother’s passing, yet here it was happening. Nadia’s words turned into a yammering blur, and I feigned attention as best I could while she prattled on and on. But my thoughts were still on Ms. Kimble. I was beginning to wonder if this was a tenable situation, if I could continue to employ her in this capacity while the romantic considerations were still so apparent. I had to do something. Before I knew it, the dinner was over, the bill was paid, and we were back in the car. Now, Nadia was more come-hither in her demeanor, and I could tell what was on her mind as we drew closer to her apartment. “Care to come up for a nightcap?” she asked, her slender body halfway out of the car. I thought her invitation over. Like every decision I made, I didn’t consider it lightly.

15

I

knew that I shouldn’t have felt jealous; I knew that it was stupid of me to think that someone like Trent Lane would want anything more from a girl like me than just a quick fling, and one that he probably regrets on top of everything. And I was stupid for letting it happen, for not putting a stop to it. But I put on a brave face, pushing out of my mind as best I could the fact that Trent was probably out with an international supermodel, or the newest addition to the Victoria’s Secret crew. In a sick way, it almost made me feel better that I could write off my feelings as pure stupidity- why would he possibly want some girl from Des Moines when he, a man who was in the top 1% not just in money but in absolute beauty, could probably have any girl on the planet that he wanted? Still, part of my just wanted to go back to the bedroom and spend the evening being a crying mess. Once I got out on the town with Olive, however, I was able to a better job putting everything out of my mind. And once we arrived at the massive stairs and columned front of the Natural History Museum, I was ready to spend the evening with a little girl who was rapidly becoming one of my favorite people. We dashed from exhibit to exhibit, with Olive barely able to contain her excitement at being able to check out whatever she wanted. We spent time at

the natural displays, admiring the huge dioramas filled with exotic replicas of animals with fantastic painting vista behind them of Amazon rainforests and African Savannahs; we studied the collected artifacts of ancient civilizations; and, of course, we checked out the enormous dinosaur displays. Hours flew by, and after we were all museumed-out, we grabbed some burritos from a taco truck and ate them in the park, the sun having long since set. A couple of too-tall ice cream cones later, and I could tell Olive was about ready to hit the hay, despite her protestations to the contrary. Sure enough, when we got back home, Olive could barely keep her eyes open. Bits of sticky ice cream on her face, she leaned against the elevator wall as we went up, her eyelids drooping. “If I didn’t think you were ready for bed before, I’d say you definitely are now. “I’m not tired,” she said, before exploding in a stretched-limb, wideopened-mouthed yawn, “I still need to finish the chapter I’m on in War of the Worlds.” “Here’s the deal,” I said, as we stepped off the elevator, the lights of the apartment flicking on automatically as we entered, “you get ready for bed, get tucked in, and you can read for another hour. Deal?” “Deal,” she said, before running off to her wing, getting started on her end of the deal. As soon as Olive left, the feeling of melancholy returned. It was getting well on in the night, and my mind was flooded with imagines of Trent dancing with some exotic beauty in one of the elegant and luxurious establishments he surely frequented. Maybe a live jazz band was playing some old tune, and her head was resting on his shoulder as they danced slowly, without any care for the hours that were slipping by. Shaking my head, I went to the kitchen, looking for a glass of something good. I spotted a bottle of red with a fancy-looking label, and not giving heed to how much it might’ve cost, popped it open and poured myself a tall glass.

I took a sip, letting the strange and complex flavors play on my tongue for a moment before swallowing the liquid down. Part of me wanted to drink what was left in the glass in a single gulp, grab the bottle, then finish it off on the terrace, but I knew that if my goal was to not be a sobbing mess, that is exactly the last thing I should be doing. Olive had gone into her room minutes ago so, wine in hand, I headed down the hallway to check up on her. Sure enough, she was in bed, snoring away, the book opened up and laying on her chest. I took the book, placed it carefully on her nightstand, turned the lights out, and shut the door. It was still early-ish in the evening, and needing something to distract myself from my feelings, I decided to put my office to use and work on some of the newest additions to my portfolio. Sure, I had a reasonably stable job at the moment, but that didn’t mean I was forever putting aside my desire to work in design. Entering the spacious office, I sat down at the computer, my notes and concept drawings next to me with my glass of wine. For the next hour or so, I tinkered with some concept logos I’d sketched over the course of the week. The time flew by and before I knew it, my glass (after a refill) was empty, and it was past midnight. I was snapped out of my work daze by the telltale sound of the elevator opening. My stomach sank once again at that sound; it could only mean that Trent was back. Standing at the bend in the hallway, I looked into the living room. Sure enough, it was him. And what’s more, he was alone. “Ms. Kimble,” he said, somehow just knowing that I was standing there. “Come into the kitchen. I want to talk with you.” Upon hearing this, my stomach turned ice-cold, and sank so low that I’m pretty sure it was crashing through the dozens of floors below us. I grabbed my wine glass and went into the kitchen, where Trent was sitting with his usual pensive, serious look. “Yes?” I said, sitting down at the table across from him.

What he said next, I simply wasn’t prepared for. “I’ve been doing some serious thinking, and I think it’s time we end this arrangement.”

16

M

s. Kimble’s face was already fairly pale, but as soon as the words left my mouth, whatever color she had to her complexion drained away at the speed of a finger-snap. “W-what?” she said, her voice catching on each letter, her eyes welling with tears. “As I said, I’ve been thinking this over for quite some time. These few weeks had been a trial run, of sorts, to see if having a live-in personal assistant was a good idea. It’s worked to some degree, and not worked for others.” “How has it not worked?” she asked, her voice barely able to hold the words together. “While I’ve enjoyed your company, I feel that having a shadow, as it were, is simply not conducive to how I like to conduct my affairs.” She said nothing, simply looking down, a tear running down her fair cheek in quick, erratic angles. “This isn’t a reflection on your performance. I’m more than happy to give you a reference, and with my recommendation of you, I’m sure that you’ll be able to find employment at any company that interests you. And for the inconvenience, you’re welcome to stay at my guest apartment in the Upper West Side for as long as you’d like.”

“But,” she said, “I just…” She couldn’t find the words, and I could tell that she was using every bit of restraint to not simply burst into tears. It wasn’t easy to see her like this, but I made sure to keep my composure calm and steady. Her eyes were now weighted with tears, and her skin was taking on a tone of deep red. “And you’ll be welcome to spend time with Olive. She seems to have really taken a shine to you, and I’d like to keep you in her life, if that’s something you’re interested in.” The mention of Olive was too much for her. Her face tightened into a scrunch for a moment, followed by the tears running free. The first hiccups of a sob escaped her throat, but before she could begin the cry that she had heretofore been using every bit of strength to keep at bay, she got up from her chair and rushed from the room as fast as her legs would take her. And it was over. Sure, I’d be seeing her on her way in the morning, and I wasn’t looking forward to telling Olive that Ms. Kimble would be leaving, but I knew that the first breaking of the news would be the most…unpleasant part of this process. It was strange; I’d fired employees before, but this was the first time that letting someone go was a process that had an effect on my beyond simply considering the time and effort it would take to find someone to replace them. The next morning went about as well as could be expected. Olive was upset, but was happy to hear that Ms. Kimble would be visiting her often, and that they would be able to continue their field trips. The car arrived around noon, and Ms. Kimble spent the time before then with Olive in her study. When the car arrived, Ms. Kimble bid Olive farewell, and she was off. As soon as the elevator doors shut, Olive shot me a nasty look before running back to her study. I wasn’t pleased with having to do what I did, but I knew it would be for the best. I simply couldn’t let a romantic entanglement interfere with my work.

My job requires focus and control at all times, and having a woman who I felt some measure of attraction to around could very well be the thing that distracts me just enough to slip in my job. And with a daughter to worry about, this simply wasn’t a risk that I was prepared to take. Saturday evening I called Ms. Kimble to make sure she was getting settled in her new place, but she didn’t answer. My place on the Upper West Side was a fantastic condo with an incredible view of Central Park, so I couldn’t imagine how she could be anything but content there. Olive was icy towards me for the rest of the weekend, but that was to be expected. Soon, the new week began, and I got back into my pre-Ms. Kimble routine. Looking over Amelia’s still-empty desk on the way in, I made a mental note to hire a new secretary- someone perhaps a little older, with a better attitude. The days went on, but as I worked, something disturbing happened: I found that my thoughts continued to drift back to Ms. Kimble. I made sure to keep myself busy; with my job, that wasn’t hard. But the second I would finish a given task, the moment my mind was free to drift to whatever it insisted upon drifting to, those thoughts would inevitably be of Ms. Kimble. I would think about her beautiful face, with its fair skin, bright eyes, and full lips. I would think about the warmth she exuded, and how pleasant it was to be around her. And as I thought about her, I would find my own feeling of warmth growing in me. Not a sexual feeling, mind you (well, mostly not), but a feeling of...happiness, of contentment. It was troubling. And the night with the woman, the date, I found myself completely uninterested in her. She was beautiful, certainly, but Ms. Kimble seemed to have some hold on me, some way of making all other women seem uninteresting. But I knew that these feelings would pass, as all feelings do. There was simply too much work to be done to be bothered with romance.

17

I

still couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe that Trent would throw me aside like that, sticking me in some apartment where he wouldn’t have to worry about me, where he could pretend that he was doing me a favor. I’d be furious if I didn’t miss him so fucking much. He wasn’t kidding about the apartment. It wasn’t a luxury penthouse on the top of a skyscraper, but it was amazing nonetheless. A three-bedroom condo that looked out onto Central Park from the east, it managed to be both cozy and spacious at the same time. It was certainly more room than I’d ever need, and would be an OK place for me to adjust to getting back to normalcy after the last two weeks. But part of me didn’t want to simply let the last two weeks go. I had feelings for Trent; surely, he knew that. And despite what he said, our arrangement worked. I was beginning to grow indispensable at his job, we enjoyed each other’s company, and I simply adored Olive. As much as he tried to frame my firing in terms of rational business calculations, I knew, deep down, that it was more about him not wanting to think about his feelings. He knew that he was starting to develop feelings for me, and probably figured that it would be easier to let me go sooner than later. Because God forbid he’d have to think about how he felt.

And now I had nothing but time on my hands. The way I saw it, I had two choices: I could either sit around and sulk, helping myself to the ample liquor cabinet, or I could get to work, get my profile in order, and get back on the job hunt, taking advantage of the situation I found myself in. It was a no-brainer. I gave myself Sunday to get over everything, spending the day lounging around in my new digs, eating takeout and watching Netflix. But Monday I was all business. I got up at six AM to go for a long run in Central Park. I ran until my legs threatened to give out from under me, and by the time I got back, the blood was rushing through my veins, and I was ready to work. Arranging the bedroom with the best view as a makeshift office, putting flowers here and opening the windows, letting the morning sun stream in, I sat down with my computer and tore into my portfolio, filling in all of the gaps, finishing the unfinished projects, and starting new ones. I was a machine, working all through the day, only taking breaks to go for a quick stroll or to grab a bite to eat. The days flew by, and before I knew it, the work week was almost over. I didn’t even really talk to anyone that wasn’t someone that I was buying food from. Aside from Olive, that is. She had my phone number, so she kept me updated on how things were going with school, what book she was reading, and other the other relevant information. That kiddo had really grown on me, and I was looking forward to our next afternoon out on the town. Saturday came, and I passed the first part of the day like any otherexercise, then work. By the time the evening rolled around, I had been at it for ten or so hours straight, and decided that a little break was in order. I put a teakettle on the burner and opened up the doors that led to the living room balcony, which filled the room within seconds with fresh air and warm sunlight. After a few minutes, the kettle began to steam, and I poured myself a cup of hot tea and stood on the terrace while I sipped it. I looked out over the city, watching the small dots of cars make their way down the boulevards, the even

smaller dots of people walking in Central Park, and the endless stretch of the city across Long Island. It was beautiful and peaceful. Then the doorbell sounded; a sharp ring that cut through the soft din of the city sounds below. I wondered who it was, who could’ve been visiting me; I wasn’t expecting any guests, and hadn’t ordered any food. I set my tea down on the glass-topped table and walked into the living room, approaching the door with slow steps. When I reached the door, I pulled it open. It was Trent. He stood in the doorway, wearing one of his crisp suits, a small bouquet of flowers in one hand, and the slightest whisper of a smile on his face. My jaw dropped. “May I come in?” he asked. I said nothing, instead sweeping my arm towards the living room. Trent stepped into the room with long strides, the polish of his dress shoes catching the last rays of evening sunlight. He stopped when he reached the middle of the room, and handed me the flowers. “For you.” Still not able to manage a word, I took the flowers, walked to the kitchen, placed them into a glass vase, and filled it with water from the sink. I brought the flowers back into the living room and set them down on a small table next to one of the couches. Looking at Trent, I could see that he wanted to say something; his face was uncharacteristically tense, and I waited for the words to come. But instead, he closed the few feet between us, took my face into his hands, and pressed his lips against mine. Our lips locked, and we stood together, held in the closed-mouth, chaste kiss. It soon became much more than that. His hands moved down to my hips. Then, with what appeared to be an effortless lift, he took me into the air and walked towards the long, white couch

that lay along the living room wall. I didn’t resist for a moment. My hands went right into his slicked-back hair, pulling it out of place and into loose, thick strands. He continued to kiss me hard, his tongue now slipping between my lips, its warm presence in my mouth bringing me instant, sensual delight. We fell backward onto the couch, the cushions yielding under our collective weight. “I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again,” I said, my voice breathy and hot. “I’m here now,” he said, taking his lips from my neck for just long enough to speak. His hands went to work on my clothes, pulling me out of the simple black blouse I was wearing, the evening air cool on by bare skin. I returned the favor, unbuttoning his white dress shirt, pulling it and his suit jacket off with a single motion. Our last liaison was in low moonlight; now that we were in brighter surroundings I could see the full glory of his naked torso. His chest was large and hard, with defined, square pectorals. His shoulders were sinewy and broad, and his abs were cut and beautiful. I kissing along his body, taking in the manly smell of his bare skin. With a quick motion, he snatched off my bra, my small, full breasts tumbling free. He took them into his hands, kissing my nipples slowly and sensually. Then, he moved his hands down to my pants, undoing the button and yanking them off, panties and all. He lifted up over me for a moment, looking me over with hungry eyes, taking in the sight of my nude body. Though I felt vulnerable under him, the feeling of being looked at with such desire filled me with a deep arousal. Lowering his torso, he kicked off his pants and socks. I opened my legs as he moved between them, and I could feel his cock against the inside of my thigh. Then, with a slow, measured thrust, he entered. I was already wet, and he slid into me with fluidity and ease.

I moaned as he entered me, and as he began thrusting harder and harder, I reached across his back, digging my nails into the hard, tough skin. He sighed out a long breath as he moved in and out of me, my legs wrapping around him as he quickened the pace of his thrusts. Steadily, he increased the speed that he fucked me, and I felt an orgasm draw nearer and nearer. I knew it would talk barely anything to cum, and I wanted nothing more than to have an orgasm while he was buried deep inside of me. I could feel him each time he buried himself to the base of his cock, and the feeling, the mental image, of his thick, long prick inside of me turned me on like nothing I’d ever known. I could feel each inch of him, each thrust of his hips under my hands. I moved my palms lower, resting them on his taut ass, squeezing him, pushing him harder into me. More and more he pounded me, the couch shifting under his thrusts. My orgasm grew closer by the second, and the room was filled with my breathy, panting moans. “Don’t stop,” I said, on the brink of cumming, “please, don’t stop.” Then it happened. White-hot pulses ripped through my body, thrumming like a drumbeat that felt as though was going to rip me apart at the seams. I felt as though, for a moment, I had become nothing but the manifestation of pure pleasure. My hands clenched, my toes curled, and my eyes were winced shut in an almost unbearable ecstasy. Trent’s back arched upwards, and, with a heavy grunt, he came, pumping himself into me, filling me full. Soon, we were both done, and he collapsed on top of me, his weight heavy and hot. We laid like this for a while, saying nothing, simply taking the pleasure of each other’s bodies next to one another. Finally, he broke the silence. “This was my first home in the city,” he said, his breath regained. “Well,

the first place that I owned.” “It’s nice,” I responded. “Right. Very nice. Nice place for a family.” “Then, this is where you…” my words trailed off. “Yes. This is where I, Olive, and my wife used to live. This is where Olive spent the first five years of her life.” A moment passed, the breeze from the outside picking up. “I don’t know why I still have this place; I haven’t stepped foot in here since Julianne passed.” “Your wife?” I asked, my words careful. He nodded. “Yes. She passed quickly, suddenly. One day she was healthy, vibrant, then over the course of a week, she seemed to waste into nothing but a shadow. By the time we took her to the doctor, we found that we were too late to do anything. The cancer came quickly, and thoroughly.” He looked around the room once again. “I suppose I’m more sentimental than I thought.” “Is that why you’re here?” I asked. I didn’t want to change the subject so abruptly, but I had to know what he had in mind. “Ever since Julianne passed, my life has been about nothing more than my daughter, and my work- in that order. Love has been something that I consigned to some other point in the future, always somewhere ahead. But when you arrived, you stirred something in me, something that I thought I was able to control and compartmentalize.” I said nothing, waiting for him to continue. “And when we slept together that first time, everything that I was trying to hide away rushed back into the front of my mind. I couldn’t escape it. I couldn’t ignore my feelings for you.” “So, you got rid of me.” He nodded again.

“Yes. It was drastic and foolish. How well you got along with Olive should’ve tipped me off that you were something special. But I was foolish and proud. And perhaps a little scared of my feelings.” Another moment. “But I’m here, such as I am. And if after all of that, all that I put you through, you’d still like to…see where this all goes, then I’m ready.” My eyes filled with tears once again. But now with joy, instead of sadness. “There’s nothing I’d like more.” Then, a smile spread across his face. Not a coy smirk, but something real, and warm. A smile that hinted at true happiness. “Then let’s not waste another second.”

18

T

he morning light streamed into the bedroom, covering Trent’s body in a white, glowing light. My hands were on his thighs, feeling the muscles of his legs under my fingertips as I worked on him. My mouth who full of him, and I looked up at his face was narrow, sly eyes as I moved my lips up and down his cock, soft sucking sounds filling the air over the gentle sound of the morning breeze against the curtain. I moved my hands up, taking in the texture of his taut, toned midsection muscles, while I watched his face shape into mild contortions of pleasure. I loved the taste of him; musky and just a little bit salty. I never got tired of waking him up in this way, starting with soft kisses along his neck, down his body, concluding at his cock. By this time, he would usually be awake, and a slow smile would spread across his face as he realized what was about to happen. I’d move slowly up his cock, savoring how his skin felt and tasted against my lips. I’d tease him a little, of course, taking my time reaching the head of cock. But, eventually, I’d take him into my mouth, my lips slipping over the ridge of his head, letting him feel the warmth of my breath on him. I’d bob up and down slowly, like I was doing now, his substantial length filing my mouth nearly completely. He wasn’t easy to accommodate in this was -I’d never been with a man of his…substance- but it was a learning process

that I enjoyed taking part it. Eventually, I’d feel the first tangs of salt in my mouth, and I knew he was getting close. Then I would do what I was doing now, which was to pick up the pace, slide my lips over his cock faster and faster, until he came in my mouth, emptying himself in me. After that, I’d swallow every last drop, a broad smile on my face. But this morning was different. Running his hands through my hair, which was draped loosely across his thighs, he pulled me up towards him, until I was sitting straddled on top of him. I got the hint quickly, and I happily scooted backward until I was directly over his cock. Reaching down, I took it by the base, angled it upwards towards me, and guided it slowly into me, closing my eyes as each inch of him slid into my eager body. I say still for a moment with him fully sheathed in me, looking over his beautiful face, a look of pleasured contentment on his features as he looked up at me on top of him. His hands moved along my legs until they came to a rest on my hips, and I began rocking back on and forth on top of him. Like always, I began slowly, feeling the shape of his cock inside of me, taking sweet pleasure at the idea of having total control over how fast he moved in and out of me, being able to angle my body in just the right way that would hit all of the right spots at just the right pace. I leaned forward, placing my hands on his hard chest and moving my hips up and down, now faster, the feeling of ecstasy of his cock inside of me radiating outwards. My hair was now draped across his face, and I could hear him breathe in my scent. I moved faster and faster, now lifting my hips up and coming down on him hard, the soft sounds of skin upon skin filling the room. I moaned as I rode him, feeling my orgasm draw closer and closer, knowing that I was only a little bit off from cumming. Trent’s hands were gripping my soft hips more firmly, and his face was tightening in pleasure. “Cum for me, baby,” I said, bouncing my hips up and down on top of him. “Cum inside of me.”

Trent let out a low grunt, and I could tell he was right on the brink. And so was I. I increased my pace, riding him even harder, knowing that was all it would take to push me over the precipice that was just before me. And it did. My orgasm exploded through my body, jolting me into sitting upright, my back straight, my hands squeezing my breasts as I came. Trent’s orgasm soon followed, arriving with a deep, almost pained grunt as he came, shooting his load deep into me. The pace of my riding slowed as I came, the orgasm filling my body like a hot pulse. Then I slowed more as my and Trent’s orgasms finished until I came to a complete stop, his cock still inside of me. I could feel his cum drip out of my, trickling down my thigh, hot and wet. Spent, I collapsed at his side. “Mmm,” I said, resting my head on his chest. “Nice way to start the weekend.” “No argument here,” he said, his hand resting on my sweat-sheened hip. “Looks like it’s going to be another day of amazing weather,” I said, looking out of the window at the cloudless late-summer sky, the breeze cooling my body warmed from the lovemaking. “Looks that way,” he said. “What do you say we take Olive down to the park after breakfast?” “Sound perfect,” I said, already looking forward to a morning in Central Park with Trent and Olive. “Too bad we have to get up to make all of that happen.” “I know,” I said, my face in a mock-pout, “we have it so rough.” Minutes passed as we lay together, our bodies intertwined, my eyes closed, an expression of peaceful contentment on my face. Finally, it was time to get up. “I’m ready if you are,” I said, rolling over. “No time like the present,” he said, giving my rear end a playful squeeze before rolling over and out of bed.

I couldn’t remember the last time I was this happy. “Finally, you’re both up,” said Olive, not taking her eyes from the food cooking on the stove. “Sit down, breakfast is almost ready.” Katie and I shared a curious look as we took our seats at the already-set kitchen bar counter. “What you got cooking there, kiddo?” asked Katie, leaning forward and trying to sneak a peek at what was simmering on the stove. “Good things come to those who wait,” said Olive, busy at work with the spatula. “Well, it smells great, whatever it is,” I said, giving Katie’s leg a squeeze over her robe. It had been several months since Katie moved in, and though I was a little anxious about the idea of getting into a serious relationship, those fears were quickly allayed as soon as she finished re-moving in her things. Olive was ecstatic, of course- I was beginning to think she wouldn’t ever forgive me for getting rid of Katie. With Katie around, and how wonderful it was, I found myself shaking my head in disbelief at how hesitant I had been to commit to a serious relationship. Having Katie around the apartment simply made my days brighter, and more joyful. Which is why it was not a difficult decision at all to ask her to marry me. She said yes, of course, and not wanting to wait to plan a ceremony, we took a quick trip on my private plane to Las Vegas, where we tied the knot. We were eager to get married, and glad we did, but I promised Katie a more elaborate ceremony. But we agreed to give ourselves the summer to relax before getting mired down in wedding planning. Weeks after, we received some more good news: Katie was pregnant. It was all a lot to be happening, and in a spontaneous fashion that was quite contrary to how I would normally do things. But it was all welcome and wonderful nonetheless.

Olive finished up whatever she was making, and walked over to us with a cast iron pan in hand. “Eggs benedict with a side of Applewood smoked bacon,” she said, scooping the food out of the pan with a gleaming, silver spatula and placing in onto our plates. I looked over at Katie with an expression of surprise. Knowing Olive, however, I shouldn’t have been. Olive set the plate down and joined us, and we dug into the food, talking about the day ahead. These light chats over breakfast were beginning to become my favorite parts of the week; it was amazing how much joy and warmth my family was bringing to my life. A warm, loving look on her face, Katie smiled at me, a smear of hollandaise sauce on her lower lip. With a soft swipe of my thumb, I wiped it from her face before bringing her close to me for a quick kiss. “Ugh, not at the table,” Olive said, not looking up from her food. I looked down at Katie’s belly, noting that the bump was growing more and more noticeable by the week. Her pregnancy was unexpected, but more than welcome. And I was slowly learning to appreciate the unexpected. “I love you, baby,” I said, pulling Katie close and placing my hand on her leg. “I love you, too,” she replied, her face in that same warm, open expression that I couldn’t imagine my days being without. “Alright guys, love-in’s over,” said Olive, now flipping through a book as she ate. “And I love you too, kiddo,” I said, reaching over and mussing her hair. “Love you guys, too,” she said, looking up and smiling at us both for a brief moment before turning back to her book. And as we sat in the kitchen, the city around us, the morning light filling the apartment with a soft, orange glow, I found myself filled with a feeling of contentment that I never thought possible. I didn’t know what the future might

hold, but I knew that whatever it did, we would be ready to greet it together, as a family.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

J.J. “Jane” Bella has always enjoyed reading since she was a little girl, reading everything she could get her hands on. Today she loves to write contemporary steamy romance stories for her favorite readers. Plotting sexy and sweet novellas while walking her dogs has always proven to be an exciting experience on a hot summer day. Wouldn’t you play with strong Alpha Males, wild Bad boys, and wealthy Billionaires if they provided you with happy endings too? J.J. lives in New England with her husband of many happy years, three children and two family Papillon’s. You may just find her writing on the lake, at the ocean, by a brook, in the middle of a NE snow storm, or on the deck in the Fall. She also loves to hear from her readers and to share Hot new sweltering stories with everyone. J-J-Bella-867865666650460 [email protected]