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  “You didn’t need to bring me with you.” I point out, finally breaking the silence.

  “I like having a second opinion,” he emerges from the dressing room in a charcoal-gray three-piece suit, that somehow fits him perfectly. “What do you think?”

  Turning away from me, he stands in front of the three-paneled mirror, catching my gaze in the reflection. His expression is relaxed and expectant, waiting patiently.

  “It’s nice,” I answer shortly, not allowing myself to study the way the material bunches at the juncture between his shoulder and his arms, or the way it hugs the thick muscles encasing his long legs. He smiles at me through the mirror, turning the conversation.

  “You don’t like me much, do you?” Though the sentence is phrased as a question, it comes out more like an observation. I am taken aback for a moment at his unexpected bluntness, but I recover quickly, finding the words to answer him.

  “It’s not personal. I don’t like being bartered.”

  His eyes fill with hurt, I think, but it is gone so fast I’m almost not sure I saw it. Turning on the heel of his expensive Italian leather loafers, he faces me, his already towering height magnified by the small platform he is standing on.

  “Even if it’s for your own good?” I meet his eyes, disgusted at the question I can almost hear tumbling straight from my own father’s lips.

  “What the hell makes you think you know what’s best for me?”

  “Maybe I don’t, but I suppose we’ll have to see.” He ticks his tongue at me momentarily before disappearing through the thick velvet curtain to change back into his own clothing. I search my thoughts for a coherent response, but I come up blank. The rest of the trip was monopolized by tense silences and short forced responses. He left the store with four new suits, and a condescending smile on his annoyingly beautiful mouth. As soon as we arrive back at the office, I gather my things to leave for the day, the rest of my work be damned.

  “Leaving early?” He catches me just as I reach to turn off my desktop.

  “Why can’t you just fire me already?” I snap, “we both know I can’t quit.”

  He sighs, standing directly in my exit path, a wall of impenetrable muscle, trapping me until he decides our conversation is over.

  “Why can’t you just trust that I have a good reason?” For the first time since my graduation party, he isn’t smiling, or smirking, and there is no amusement in his emerald gaze. Instead, his eyes are imploring and hard, and his lips are pursed in frustration at my disobedience.

  “Just tell me why.” Exhaustion overtakes my voice, conjuring a momentary pity on his features – as much as I hate the sentiment, and as much as I want to scream that I don’t need it, I understand it. I feel like an animal caught in a trap, forever stuck between my father and whatever it is I can do for him. His gaze drifts down, catching my pout for a split second before meeting my eyes once more. Suddenly, he is moving, stalking towards me, herding me further into the enclosed space until my back hits the desk and he is so close I can feel his breath on my cheek. Tilting his head, he studies me for a moment, before finally giving me an explanation, and though I wanted it, it’s certainly not what I expected.

  “Because as long as you’re mine, you aren’t his. He can’t control you.”

  The intensity of his words burn into me, melting the room around us as my mind loses itself in the million questions I could ask about that sentence. He doesn’t give me a chance, though, turning on his heel almost as fast as he’d approached me, and walking away. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, gripping my purse and making my way out of the building.

  Chapter 3

  Ryan

  “What are you working on?” The familiar smooth voice causes me to jump in my standard-issue office chair, scrambling to close the document on my computer. Swiveling around, I meet his eyes. They are filled with amusement, matching the annoyingly handsome smirk on his lips, conjuring a hot flush to overtake my cheeks.

  “It’s um,” I wrack my brain for an excuse, but come up empty, resigning to settle for the truth. “It’s a novel. Well, almost.”

  “Well, let’s have a look.” Mr. Price smiles, jerking my chair backwards mid-protest to lean down towards my computer screen.

  “No, it’s not— “

  “Shush, I’m trying to read.” He waves off my objection, his eyes scanning across the screen. “It’s good. It’s really good. You should have this published. Is it done?”

  He straightens, turning to me after reading through a couple pages. I shift in my chair, uncomfortable. “No, not yet. It just keeps getting pushed aside, you know?”

  He nods in understanding, pursing his lips at me. “You’re talented, Ryan.”

  Before I can respond he pushes off of the edge of my spacious desk, walking the short distance into his office and closing the door without a glance backwards. Quickly exiting out of the unfinished document, I duck my head, resuming my mind-numbing clerical tasks for the remainder of the day.

  By the time I am finished several hours later, Mr. Price is swinging his black-collared coat over his shoulders, locking his office door on his way out.

  “You’re here later than usual.” He remarks, raising his brow in pleasant suspicion as he presses the elevator call button for the both of us. I don’t meet his eyes, tapping my foot in my eagerness to leave.

  “I had a lot to do.” My tone is curt, not bothering with normal office politeness. How much more of this will it take before he relents and fires me? The seemingly never-ending descent to the lobby is pleasantly quiet, and he bids me a polite, albeit annoyingly amused, goodbye as we exit in diverging directions.

  * * *

  “Wow, you stayed a full eight hours at work today,” my father bites as I walk through the door, his voice dripping in disapproving sarcasm. “I’d say I’m impressed but I certainly didn’t teach you to strive for mediocrity.”

  “You didn’t teach me to strive for anything but approval.” I spit at him, strolling past the entryway where he was waiting for me, seeking out my mother. She may be married to the devil, but she has some softer sides.

  Pushing through the swinging door into the grand white and stainless-steel kitchen, I find her quietly speaking with Stephanie, our chef. I pass a warm greeting to Stephanie before directing my attention to my mother.

  “Hello dear, how was work?” Prim and proper as always, she kisses me on my cheek, taking a seat at the island.

  “It was fine,” my mind drifts to yesterday’s exchange with Mr. Price. “I’m moving out.”

  Shocked wordlessness settles on her perfectly botoxed features as she registers my announcement.

  “You most certainly are not,” my father starts behind me; I cut him off, maintaining eye contact with my mother, and raising my chin, determined to speak my piece.

  “With the new job dad graciously acquired for me, I make more than enough money to live on my own. I’ve been thinking about this for awhile and I found a lovely apartment in the city.” I explain, keeping my voice firm. It is the same tone I’ve observed my father use over the years of political bargaining and back-room deals – neutral enough not to raise defenses, but convicted, nonetheless.

  “Oh honey, you don’t need to worry about the money. Your trust fund will be released in a few years. You can move out then.” She dismisses me. I turn to my father, relying on a new tactic.

  “It’s much closer to work, so I can go in earlier and leave later.”

  He quirks a brow at me, surprised at my apparent commitment. “That’s a newfound attitude. Are you finally learning to accept your new position?”

  “Mr. Price has expressed a desire for a higher level of initiative on my part, so I’m taking it.” I lie through my teeth at them, banking on my father’s desire for Price’s endorsement, “besides, I already signed the lease.”

  Turning on my heel, I retreat to my bedroom before I have to weather the storm of anger and disappointment. I’ll deal with i
t on move-out day, approximately three days from now.

  * * *

  “What’s this I hear about a new apartment?” Mr. Price approaches me as I settle into my desk. My father must have called him after I left them in the kitchen last night. Swiveling in my chair, I stand to face him, feeling my features go bright red with a blush.

  “I may have used you as an excuse,” I start, “I’m sorry.”

  The genuine sound of my apology shocks even me, but then again, I wouldn't wish my father’s ire on anyone. He chuckles, his signature smirk directed at me as he leans against my desk.

  “I’m glad I could be of assistance. Does this mean I can expect you to arrive at a reasonable hour from now on?”

  I meet his gaze, a small laugh escaping my lips. “I still have a couple days of excuse.” I quip, dramatically glancing at the calendar sitting on my desk.

  Mr. Price nods, laughing, turning back to me as he walks away, “Oh and Ryan?”

  “Hm?”

  “Make sure you do everything on your calendar today. Wouldn’t want to fall behind.”

  I narrow my eyes a bit, confused at his instruction. Is he finally getting annoyed at my lack of commitment to this job? Before I have a chance to ask, he closes the glass door to his office. I spin in my chair, moving my mouse to pull up the task list that is kept in our employee portal. He usually uses it to add random things he’d like me to do outside of my normal clerical obligations. When the color-coded grid finally loads on my screen, I can’t help a small gasp as I notice the new little green block of two-hours time that now shows up on every day, marked “Writing.”

  Suppressing a smile, my head whips up, catching his gaze through the glass wall. His lips upturn into a genuine smile as I pass him a nod of thanks. Maybe he can expect more commitment to the job after all.

  Chapter 4

  Ryan

  Despite the knots twisted in my stomach from the week’s whirlwind events, and my parents’ predictable attitudes, moving day wasn’t as awful as I’d expected it to be. With the help of a very gracious doorman and my admittedly under-deserved salary from Mr. Price, the rustic Pottery Barn furniture I’d ordered was delivered and assembled before I even stepped foot in the building.

  As far as city dwellings go, this one is beautiful. Each room has several floor-to-ceiling windows – an unavoidable phenomenon in skyscraper apartments – but it’s smooth brick accent-walls and dark wood floors give it a cozy autumn feeling that is seldom found in the sterile urban setting. My landlord graciously painted the remaining walls a deep complimenting gray that, in any other apartment, would be too dreary. Somehow here, combined with the flooding sunshine and city-lights, it works. By the time my parent’s and my paid movers left yesterday, my kitchen was perfectly stocked, and my living room was meticulously decorated in my mother’s style of the month. This month happens to be “earth” themed, ending up with a thick pearly azure-colored rug layering my living room floor, and the matching pillows and throw-blankets now to adorn my cream-colored couch. Paired with brushed metal “apples” in the center of the thick-wood coffee table and a lantern far too large to be useful, it is apparently the epitome of style. I’ve learned it’s best in some situations to simply let her have her way, and, to be frank, the decorations did tie in quite nicely.

  Now, I am sitting in my nearly untouched office wishing I’d let her apply her magic touch to it when I had the chance. Mr. Bromley, my doorman, brilliantly instructed my desk be placed adjacent to the large windows; sparing me some of the glare during the bright end-of-summer days and giving me at least some guidelines for where to place everything else. Hefty bookshelves line the far wall directly across from my desk, home to not just my novel collection, but my record player, and several unlit candles as well. My new smoky-wood workspace sits in front of a memory-foam tweed chair, complimenting the sapphire patterned rug beneath it’s thick legs. Tucking my stolen collection of Mr. Price’s favorite writing pens into one of the drawers, I take a much needed seat into the soft cushion, resigning to resume the decorating process after work tomorrow.

  For now, I’d like to accomplish at least something writing related this weekend. The two hours of time that Mr. Price blocked off for me every day should be helping me finish my novel, but they just aren’t. I’m blocked; from what, I don’t know. Leaning back into my seat, I drum my fingers against the arm of the chair, trying to wrack my brain for anything resembling inspiration, but my mind keeps rebelliously drifting back to Mr. Price. Ever since our conversation following the suit incident, I’ve been trying to unravel him like a ball of extraordinarily tangled yarn, but each time I work through one knot, a larger one pops up. Why does he care if my father controls me?

  My back gives a satisfying crack as I grip the arms of my chair, twisting them. Overtired from the long weekend and eyes beginning to grow heavy, my body betrays me, demanding I relinquish my exhausted trail of thought in favor of sleep; begrudgingly, I oblige. Rising, I flip the light switch to my new favorite room and crawl into my makeshift bed, mentally scolding myself for not remembering to unpack and wash my new sheets today.

  * * *

  My eyes scream at me as I exit the elevator into the bright fluorescent office, punishing me for not getting enough sleep last night with a dull and persistent burn. After the eventful weekend, I’m definitely not prepared for this early Monday morning, and since I haven’t actually been trying to work, I also haven’t forced my body to adjust to an early-rising sleep schedule yet. But, I promised myself on Friday that I’d be better at this job, so here I am.

  “Good morning, Audrey.” My voice is chipper as I greet the unpleasant receptionist, enjoying the incredulous look on her ever-scowling face as she glances back and forth between me and her wristwatch in disbelief, not bothering to reply. Taking a sharp right turn into one of the many office kitchens, I pour myself a generous serving of the breakfast-blend coffee, gulping the hot liquid down despite protest from the nerve-endings on my tongue. Early mornings will definitely take some getting used to.

  The door to Mr. Price’s office is closed, but I can see through the un-dimmed windows that he’s engrossed in some phone call. If he notices me arrive, I don’t catch any indication of it. I shrug my new work-appropriate backpack from my shoulders, tucking it neatly beneath my desk, my eyes barely straying from Mr. Price. Who takes phone calls at 8:30 in the morning?

  Glancing up unexpectedly, he catches my stare with a satisfied smirk, his eyes filling with a sparkle of mischief that I’ve come to expect from him, but I never can quite get used to. I look away instantly, feeling my cheeks go red with embarrassment at being caught.

  That's when it catches my eye.

  Resting on top of my keyboard, perfectly wrapped in clean, brown paper, is a gift. Finally pulling my attention from the man behind the glass wall, I gently pick it up, my fingertips just grazing the object as I turn back around question him with a furrowed brow, but when my eyes reach him he is concentrated once again on whatever is on his computer screen. Lowering my attention, I sink into the chair behind my knees, fingertips ripping away the edges of the package before I give them permission to. As the thick paper pulls back just far enough for me to read the cover of the novel, I gasp, almost dropping it -- my grip loosening with sheer awe.

  “I thought Fitzgerald at first, but he seems a bit too self deprecating for your style, and anyway The Sun Also Rises is one of my favorites.” Mr. Price explains, startling me as he approaches from behind with his usual silent cat-like strut. Seeing my bewildered expression, he explains nonchalantly. “It’s a house-warming gift.”

  My brow furrows at him as he speaks, casually gifting me something that, by rights, should be kept in a museum.

  “I can't accept this,” I finally gather my words, lifting the first edition Hemingway towards him. He waves me off before I have a chance to continue my reasoning, cocking his head, motioning for me to follow as he strolls into his office. Carefully, I set the hard-cover print
back into it’s paper wrappings and rise to abide him.

  “Mr. Price, while I appreciate the gesture, I know what this book is worth and I absolutely cannot accept it.” Approaching his desk, I falter for a moment, realizing I’ve never actually been in his office; he always comes to me when he wants to interact.

  “I think it’s high time you start calling me by my first name, no?” He ignores my rejection of his gift, leaning casually into the back of his leather desk-chair with a smirk.

  “Mr. Price—“

  “Julian.” He corrects, erupting an exasperated sigh from deep in my chest.

  “Julian,” I start, dripping in sarcasm and earning a signature gleam in his emerald eyes. Ignoring it, I continue, punctuating each sentence. “I appreciate your gesture. I can’t accept the gift.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s wildly outside the bounds of a house-warming gift! Most people get candles,” I raise my hands in a motion of disbelief as I speak to him, unsure of how to even explain the social norm that other people would simply know. “I see why you needed a personal assistant, now.”

  Julian chuckles with my defeated quip, leaning forward to press a few keys on his computer. “You’re keeping the gift,” he declares, quickly beginning his next sentence to cut off my protest, “and consequentially, I’m glad you’ve brought that up. I’m leaving this afternoon for an emergency trip to London and as my—how did you put it? Much needed assistant, you’re coming with.”

  I hesitate for half a second before nodding, resigned to picking up the book argument at a later date. “Okay. I’ll go home and pack now. How long will we be there? And what time should I meet you at the airport?”