by Anna Collins
As I was lying on my mat, Belle trotted up to me and gave me a solid headbutt. She was clearly unimpressed I chose this frivolous activity over the all-important task of feeding her.
“As you wish, your highness,” I said, getting up off the floor.
After I fed Belle, I quickly scrambled some eggs and made coffee with my French press rather than my Keurig. Save the planet! I felt great. Productive, active, and great. Even Belle meowed happily when she was done licking her chops.
It wasn’t quite six yet, so I’d have time to gussy up before work. I showered, curled my hair, painted myself up nice, and sneaked into the bedroom to pull my clothes out of the closet without waking up Nick.
Damn, I’d gotten so used to settling for the blogger’s lifestyle wardrobe of t-shirts and pajama pants I hardly felt like I had anything to wear. I resolved to go shopping once my first paycheck came in. For now, I settled for a white button-up top with polka dots and a long black skirt also buttoned up in the middle. I also wore some dark leggings, a silver bracelet, and little triangular ear studs. Overall, kind of vintage looking, but I didn’t have time to wrestle with my wardrobe. I looked cute, if not sexy. Perfectly acceptable assistants’ attire.
iPad, check. Phone, check. Chargers, check. Heels, check. Light jacket, check. Check, check, check. I was ready to go.
Since I was driving so early in the morning, the traffic wasn’t bad this time around. It was Sunday, after all, and there weren’t as many church-goers in California as there used to be.
I’d never been to Portola Valley before. It was one of the richest neighborhoods in the country, so obviously I had no reason to go there. The surroundings during my drive changed from urban gray to desert brown to lush green. Portola Valley was on the edge of all the open space preserves, which was probably why it felt like a national park. Cruising through the sleepy roads, no two houses were near each other. There was a good space for trees and garden area and picket fences along the road, and I felt like I was in a storybook.
Apollo’s house was way in the back of town, closest to the Windy Hill Preserve. I got as close as I could before I needed to stop behind a gated fence. IRONS HOUSE was written in metal, iron, probably, along the gate. Just down the road, past the gate, I could see the house. It reminded me of something from Venice, with a red rooftop. Other than that, I couldn’t make out any details. It was huge, though.
While I sat wondering whether I should honk or give Apollo or Daphne a call, the gate opened on its own. Well, that was easy…
I drove forward into the driveway. It was big enough for ten cars, but mine was the only one there. His garage was red like his roof, and kind of reminded me of a barn. A really classy barn, but still. Not something you’d expect from a billionaire. The fact it was as big as a barn was more like what I expected. I wondered how many cars he had in there other than his Spider.
I got out of my car, went to lock it, and then decided my car was far from the first thing a thief would come here to steal. Looking around, I followed the paved walkway past the garage. In a garden between the garage and house, there was a round fountain, and in the middle of it, there was a statue of a naked man with a harp. No, not a harp. A lyre. The whole thing was beautifully carved and white as marble. It probably was marble. It must have been worth a fortune.
Finally, I found the front door. It had a little stairway walk-up flanked by hanging green plants with flowers growing on them. They smelled incredible. This would be nice to walk through every morning.
Before I could knock, Apollo opened the door. And he was shirtless.
Scratch that. He was naked. Except for a towel around his waist.
I could almost hear Thea’s “I-told-you-so” in my head. Not that he was necessarily naked for my benefit… Right?
“Come in,” he said, hair still wet and shiny, draping his face in rivulets. His oaken body was whittled to perfection—large pecs, six pack trailing down into that little V muscle pack before being cut off by the edge of his towel. Little telltale scars over his ribs and abdomen. Despite his comparatively light skin tone when he wore all-black clothes, he looked quite tanned against the white towel.
“I said you could come in,” he repeated. He might as well have said, “My eyes are up here,” because I was not looking him in the face.
Good God. He was Superman. He must have been.
I gulped and managed to rip my eyes away from his torso and look into his glacier eyes. He had an amused look. “Thanks,” I said weakly.
He stepped aside and let me in.
Forcing myself not to stare at Apollo, I studied the foyer of the house. It was minimalist in design, with white walls decorated with Renaissance-style Greek myth artwork mixed with portraits of historical figures. I spotted Theodore Roosevelt, Winston Churchill, Ben Franklin, of course, and a few more I recognized, but couldn’t quite name. Between a huge spiral staircase was a bust of a Greek-looking guy on a pedestal—it had curly hair like ramen noodles and an equally curly beard.
“Marcus Aurelius,” Apollo said.
I looked at him. “Sorry?” I said flushing red since I nearly forgot he wasn’t wearing clothes.
Apollo nodded to the bust sculpture. “The Roman Caesar and philosopher. ‘You have power over your mind—not outside events. Realize this, and you will find strength.’ I try to live by that wisdom.”
“Your dad really drilled the classics into your head, didn’t he?”
The jovial look in his eyes died. I was just joking…
“I just finished my shower,” he said evenly. “Make yourself at home while I get dressed.”
I opened my mouth to apologize, but I didn’t know what I’d be apologizing for, so I closed it. Damn it, Callie. Dead father. Or missing father. At any rate, not a topic for the first five minutes of work.
He disappeared upstairs, and my eyes followed him the whole way. His broad shoulders, the movement of his shoulder blades, his hips, his sturdy legs lightly dusted with still-drying hair. It was all I could do to keep my self in check.
I walked around the large foyer. The floors were tiled, I think with marble. They reflected the light coming in from the tall windows, which had scarlet red drapes. Huge stone columns were lined in rows on the second floor, which overlooked the foyer with wooden railings. The roof was so high I wanted to shout something just to hear the echo.
One end of the foyer led to an open kitchen area surprisingly similar to the one at Saison, and the other end led to a carpeted study, with bookshelves for walls, all full of the kinds of books that don’t need flashy cover pages to look good. I spotted old Victorian furniture in the study and immediately wanted to curl up there with a book, move my cat in, and live out the rest of my days in comfort.
Overall, it was a pretty eclectic taste in architecture and decoration. You had modern minimalism mixed with Victorian rustic mixed with the classical Roman design. Not to mention the historical figures ranging from Caesar to a founding father to a president to a prime minister. I could swear there was a Van Gogh on the wall, too. And it worked, somehow. It felt majestic and cozy at the same time. Like a piece of pre-American history, and yet distinctly American. As if a Roman emperor had built the White House.
Tired of waiting around looking at old epitomized white dudes, I gravitated toward the study. Immediately the whole room felt warmer—red oak bookshelves, leather covers, the kind of furniture with armrests in the shape of lions’ paws. Utter Heaven.
The books were organized by author surnames, and that was it. Whether they were fiction, nonfiction, poetry, or anything else was a mystery, unless you knew the author or book title. I found books by Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, Woolf, Hemingway, even Stephen King. He had poetry collections from Sylvia Plath - Jordan would be impressed -, Allen Ginsberg, Poe, Tennyson, and many more. There were historical texts by and from Teddy Roosevelt and Winston Churchill. Epic poems by Homer. Philosophy by Marcus Aurelius. And an autobiography by Benjamin Franklin.
I look
ed around and found a stepping stool, using it to lift me up enough to reach the autobiography. It was bound in thick leather, but it wasn’t a large book, so I slid it out of its slot without much trouble. I was surprised to find a series of colored tabs sticking from the top and sides of the book, like a student’s textbook. The tabs weren’t labeled other than by color. Curious, I flipped to a red-labeled page. There I found a highlighted passage:
‘I grew convinc’d that truth, sincerity, and integrity in dealings between man and man were of the utmost importance to the felicity of life…’
Admirable, if annoyingly gender-specific. I flipped to a green page next. This one had another highlighted passage:
‘I have always thought that one man of tolerable abilities may work great changes, and accomplish great affairs among mankind if he first forms a good plan, and, cutting off all amusements or other employments that would divert his attention, makes the execution of that same plan his sole study and business.’
Sheesh. All work and no play, eh, Ben? You must have been a dull boy indeed.
In the margins of this page, there was a handwritten note matching Apollo’s writing from the letter he had sent me. It said, “Is a life without amusements a life worth celebrating?” Good question, Mr. Irons. I should hope you aren’t immune to occasional amusement…
There were yellow tabs and blue tabs as well, but one stood out. I didn’t know what color it used to be, but it seemed to be scribbled black with ink. How could I resist? I flipped to the page. This one didn’t have a highlighted passage. Rather, it went on about Ben’s ideas for a sect for young and single men. Uh, not creepy at all, Dr. Franklin. But it got creepier.
It talked about declaring assent to a “creed,” having members be “examined” for thirteen weeks to practice certain “virtues.” Eesh. Gotta love that 1600’s old-time religion… Except this didn’t quite look like a Christianity thing. “The Society of the Free and Easy.” Some kind of Revolutionary frat house. I wondered what they—
“Learning anything interesting?” Apollo asked from behind me.
I flinched so badly I lost balance on my heels and fell backward off the stepping stool, throwing the book in the air.
Miraculously, I landed in Apollo’s arms—swoon—, but the book landed on its spine with a sickening crack, tearing the binding half-loose.
Not ten minutes in my new boss’s house and I had already destroyed a beloved work of art. Way to go, Callie…
Chapter Fourteen
Callie
“Oh, Christ, I’m so sorry,” I sputtered.
Apollo actually laughed. I could feel the rumble in his chest as the sound escaped. It made me quiver. “I shouldn’t have snuck up on you,” he said. His breath was hot on my ear, sending gooseflesh all down my neck and shoulder. My legs were splayed out before me, one heel having fallen off, and his arms were around my ribcage, just under my breasts, holding me tight for balance.
Yeah. Balance.
“Fuck, I totally wrecked your book,” I said, looking at it. It was standing awkwardly on its spine, the pages spilling forward, half-torn from their binding. “It’s gotta be like four hundred years old, too. Jesus, it’s a first edition, isn’t it? Oh, my God, I am so—”
“Callie,” Apollo said.
He didn’t raise his voice, but he had a solid steadiness to it that cut through my panic. I stopped freaking out, giving myself a second to catch my breath. His own steady breathing calmed me—a gentle repetition, like floating in a wave pool.
“It’s just a book,” he went on. “A very old, very valuable book…”
“Jesus…”
“Just listen. It doesn’t matter what it’s worth. Hell, I scribbled all over it like it was a grade school paper. I don’t believe in fake value—that a book’s worth is in its age. The words matter. The ideas. I can repair that copy of Franklin’s autobiography. I have done that many times. I’m a reader, not a collector. Okay?”
I nodded.
“Are you ready to stand?”
Oh, right. I was still leaning into him. Oops.
I lifted myself to my lopsided feet, limping over to my other heel and slipping it back on. Apollo picked up the book, fitted it, so it sat comfortably between the covers if a little loosely, and slid it back onto the shelf without needing the stepping stool to reach.
“Was that the book that inspired you to do your autobiography?” I had to ask.
“A long time ago, yes.” He looked at it with a faraway pride.
“I guess I’ll have to read it.”
He turned his head to look at me. “Maybe you shouldn’t.”
That didn’t make much sense. If it was his source of inspiration, why wouldn’t I want to capture that same feeling?
“How come?”
He looked at the book again. Then back to me. “There’s probably enough of that book in mine,” he said. “The advantage of having you edit it is you can improve it with a fresh perspective.”
I never believed in the idea that not reading made you a better writer. Any wordsmith worth her salt wouldn’t let such inspirations bleed obviously onto the page. Reading made writers better in writing, whether the book was bad, good or amazing.
But I’d take an excuse to not have to read about a dusty old white guy who probably owned slaves. It wasn’t like I was itching to read it anyway…
Now that I had my balance, I could face Apollo and get a better look at him. Sadly he was no longer wearing just a towel. Instead, his outfit was sharp and sexy all the same. A midnight blue turtleneck which hugged his torso just right, a black blazer, black jeans, and black-and-white Converse high tops. The shoes surprised me. Sure they were trendy and looked good, but for some reason, I didn’t expect he’d ever wear something that cost less than a thousand dollars. Then again, he seemed to measure quality over price.
“Did you have a bit of a sleep-in today, Mr. Irons?” I asked. “I expected you to be ready to face the day by the time I got here.”
Apollo motioned for me to follow him through the study and into the next room at the back of it. “You’ve seen the study,” he said. “Let me show you the rest of the house.”
“A guided tour,” I said, following. “Lucky me. I gotta say, I didn’t expect it to be so…”
“Empty?” Apollo asked.
The next room was a small gym, complete with an elliptical, an exercise bike, a weight bench, a stair-climber, a cross bar, a rack of kettlebells, an air rower, a punching bag, and all kinds of workout accessories. I spotted a speaker system in the high corners of the room, and there was a big flat-panel TV built into the wall. There was even a yoga mat!
And it wasn’t just for show, either. The equipment, while well-maintained, had clearly seen use. Their shine was worn; there were notches and dents in some of the bars. The punching bag looked mottled in the middle; the rubber grips were discolored and had slight hand-shaped grooves. And the whole room had a natural scent, lightened by what must have been a cedar wood air freshener, but you could clearly smell the musk of workout sweat off the equipment. It intoxicated me.
“Uh,” I said, shaking off the thought of Apollo Irons’ pumping… iron. “Yeah. You don’t have any, uh…”
“Servants? Butlers? Maids? Gardeners?”
I grinned sheepishly. “It’s a big house. I just expected you to want help maintaining it and keeping it clean.”
Apollo gave a half-agreeing side-to-side nod. “If I’m capable of doing something myself, I usually do it myself.”
“Real type A, aren’t ya?”
He chuckled. “You could say that. I do have cleaners and landscapers come by sometimes. Just not on Sundays. And as for your comment earlier about sleeping in, I spend an hour in this room every morning after I have refreshed myself on the day’s business. Then I have breakfast and read the news. Then I shower and dress.”
That must have been my cue. I pulled my iPad out of my bag and started jotting down notes with my Apple Pencil. I could have
typed, but I was faster writing one-handed when I used the stylus. It also made my anxiety of people reading over my shoulder a non-issue; there was no way anyone but me could read my sloppy handwriting.
“Is this for the autobiography?” Apollo asked, folding his arms.
“Yep. People love knowing the morning routines of successful people. Even if it’s a tiny part of your book, online articles will post the schedule on lists all over the internet. Free marketing, primarily. Trust me, I used to make those kinds of lists.”
“Sounds useful.”
“That’s what I’m here for. That and because I’m great company.”
Apollo laughed. I always shivered a little in delight every time I made him laugh at my dumb jokes.
“No arguments here,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “I’ll quickly show you the rest of the house, but we have to leave soon.”
“Where are we going?” I asked, following him through the gym and into an open shower room.
“We’re going through the bathroom,” Apollo said simply. “It’s where I shower after my workouts.”
It had granite tiling and a roof-to-floor transparent shower box. The shower was spacious enough to swing your arms around, with a drain in the middle of the floor and a square panel in the roof which seemed to be where the shower water would come from. A “rain shower,” I believed it was called. There was also a wide, ivory white sink and a matching toilet. A section of the bathroom was quartered off for a huge, deep tub, which I wanted to jump into immediately for a long soak.
“I meant after the tour,” I said.
“I’ll show you. Telling instead of showing was what made my manuscript imperfect in the first place.”
He led me to a second door on the other side of the bathroom, which actually led outside, onto a deck surrounded by forest. It must have been refreshing to step outside after a post-workout shower. The deck resulted in a few different entrances back into the house; a small staircase up to the master bedroom, a door that led down into the lower level, and an entrance to the kitchen. The deck expanded into a full patio surrounding the kitchen, complete with a barbecue, a dinner table, and assorted furniture nicer than the things I had in my apartment. They were protected by an overhang so they wouldn’t get drenched in the rain, but the deck extended far enough you could sit in the sun if you wanted.
