by Colet Abedi
Perfect?
Becoming Michael Sinclair’s PA is not exactly what I picture for my future. Not that being a piss-poor barista is, but still, at least I’m in charge of my destiny. Calling the shots. Answering to a boss that doesn’t know a thing about my old life or self, who only knows me as I am now. Who only judges me based on my skills or lack thereof…
“And besides, we’re family.”
I can feel my heart pound in my chest.
Family.
I don’t like the way his words make me feel.
“It’s a generous offer,” I tell him slowly. “But I’ll have to decline.”
“Why?” Michael demands. “And this time look me in the eyes when you answer the question.”
My blood simmers as I meet his gaze dead-on and feel the familiar rush move through my body. Damn him. And damn this undeniable attraction I have always had for him. The desire to jump across the table and rip his clothes off and lick every inch of his tanned body. I wonder if I’ll ever be free of it.
I’m pretty sure the odds are very unlikely.
“I don’t think I like your tone,” I finally say.
“Well I don’t like your answer,” he returns.
“Because you always get your way?”
His silence is telling.
“It’s a generous offer,” I say appreciatively. “But you and I both know, I’m not right for the job.”
“If I didn’t think you were right for it, I wouldn’t have asked.”
“Michael—”
“Do you think you’re right at being a barista?”
It’s hard not to miss the sarcasm in his voice.
“I’m learning.”
“Come and learn from me.” Michael’s tone changes. It’s almost seductive. “I know I can teach you a few things. And I promise you’ll enjoy every minute of it.”
My stomach does a somersault, then a high kick, as I am undoubtedly sure he can teach me many things.
But what I’d like him to teach me and what he has in mind are two completely different areas of expertise.
“Take a chance, Abby,” Michael goes on. “We’ll have fun together.”
Fun?
Together?
For a moment I’m tempted, but then a picture comes to mind… me sitting outside his office door behind a desk taking calls from all the women in his life. Setting lunch dates. Dinner dates. Travel plans. I wouldn’t be able to run from it, pretend it wasn’t happening because I’d know exactly where he was and who he was doing it with at all times.
“No,” I reply sharply, realizing I wouldn’t be able to handle working for him in this capacity. “My answer is no.”
“Why?” Michael frowns as he leans forward and crowds the table with his energy. I move back in my chair and try to keep as much distance from him as I can.
“Stop asking why. I don’t have to give you a reason. I can just say no.”
“I’ll pay you well,” he continues forcefully. “You won’t have to worry about money.”
If anything that makes me want to refuse the job even more.
“It’s still no.”
I almost cringe when I see the hard glint in his eyes.
“Are you afraid?” Michael asks in a low voice.
“What?” For a moment I think he knows exactly why I want to keep as much distance as I can from him.
“Are you afraid I’ll be hard on you?”
Oh, Michael, I’d love for you to be hard inside me… That’s the fundamental problem here.
“No, of course not.”
“Aren’t you up for the challenge? Something different?” Michael continues. “The adventure.”
Adventure.
Wouldn’t that be lovely?
The idea of an adventure is too enticing for words.
To be honest, at this very moment in my life, adventure sounds like everything I need. Unfortunately, I know it’s not a safe bet with Michael since it will only serve to turn my life into more of a crazy mess.
“My answer still stands.”
I can’t tell what he’s thinking. He’s too good at masking his thoughts.
“All right,” he finally says, sounding disappointed. “But if you change your mind—”
“I won’t.”
Michael actually smiles.
“We’ll see.”
“Is that a warning?”
“It’s a statement of fact,” he says.
“Have you always been so arrogant?” The words come out before I can stop them.
Michael bursts out laughing.
“Probably.”
Before I can give him a proper letdown, the server brings our food.
“Smells delicious,” Michael says as he looks at the assortment of Indian cuisine.
He serves me a generous portion before helping himself.
“Eat up, Abby,” he orders. “I think your lunch break is almost up. I wouldn’t want to be the reason you get fired.”
***
When I open the door to my two-bedroom flat later that evening, I’m mentally and physically exhausted. Ronald couldn’t have been nicer when I returned to work. I gathered it was because of Michael’s more than generous tip. Whatever it was, I’d take it if it meant he’d be less irritated with me.
My apartment, a quintessential Victorian, is my sanctuary. It was the last gift my father had left for me, and one I’m eternally grateful for. He purchased it when he was a bachelor, right before he met my mother in America. We had updated it through the years, but I really wanted to keep the bones the way my father found it.
It makes me feel closer to him.
With high ceilings and a generous view of Hyde Park, it’s the perfect space. My taste in furniture is very English and traditional. I inherited all of my father’s historic art and antiques, pieces that have been in the family forever. Mixed in with modern furniture I’ve purchased, it makes my home feel both cozy and up-to-date. I’m a fan of neutral color themes, crèmes and whites with velvet and floral cushions placed on the couches. My friends tell me I have an eye for interior design, and I must admit, I did enjoy putting my home together.
Since my mother believed I would be marrying Dimitri, no expense had been spared. I wonder if she now regrets being so extravagant.
“Enfin te voila!” I hear my best friend, Georges de Banville, in his thick French accent calling out to me from my kitchen. “You’re late.”
I walk to the kitchen and find Georgie—which he prefers to go by—opening a bottle of champagne. I smile when I take in his appearance.
He’s always dressed in designer clothes from head to toe. The cost of one of his outfits could feed a family of four for a month. And not only that, but his looks also fit the part as well.
Georgie has dark olive colored skin and a face that should have been in fashion magazines. He’s beautiful. I’ve always thought he looked like an underwear model. Like an ad you’d see for Calvin Klein.
Georgie pours the champagne into two glasses and hands me one.
“Abby,” he begins as he takes in my appearance and shakes his head in dismay as he dramatically motions to my outfit. “We need a spa day. It’s an emergency situation for you. Look at those nails!”
“Like the good old times,” I tell him drolly. I take a sip of the champagne and sigh in pleasure. “This is delicious. And so needed after the afternoon I’ve had.”
“Oui,” he says. “Now tell me, was he as beautiful as ever?”
After Michael walked me back to the coffee shop, I had immediately texted Georgie and told him the news. He wrote back instantly, and since he carries a spare key, he told me he would meet me at my apartment that evening.
So here he is.
Waiting to hear all the details.
I don’t leave anything out. And I do go on for a while about how ridiculously beautiful Michael looked. Sometimes I think Georgie is as obsessed with Michael as I am.
“Abby!” Georgie says, when I’m finally don
e with my story.
We are sitting on the couches now, with our feet propped up on the fluffy ottoman.
“If you don’t take the job with Michael, I might,” Georgie says in excitement. “I can’t think of anything more enticing than seeing that perfect specimen every day.”
“I can see it now,” I laugh just picturing the image of Georgie bringing Michael a coffee in the morning. I doubt he’s ever even toasted a slice of bread. He has a full staff that takes care of his every need. Georgie is a trust fund baby, and what his parents failed to provide in the emotional department they made up for financially, ensuring he will never have to work a day in his life.
“Tell me again so I can understand,” Georgie says as he takes a piece of cheese off the plate I had put together and pops it in his mouth. “Why on earth did you turn him down?”
“I can’t work for him.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a recipe for disaster.”
“It’s a recipe to finally get you into bed with him,” he counters. “Sex, Abby! Think about the office sex you can have with him. On his desk. Servicing him under his desk. On his couch. Against a door. How sordid and wonderful, and just what you need.”
“Georgie!” I can feel myself blush as I try to admonish him, but the picture that comes to mind from his words excites me.
Tempts me.
“I speak only the truth,” he says. “And I am only verbalizing the thoughts and words that lie dormant in your heart. I really dare you to deny it.”
“I won’t,” I counter. “But whatever the case, we both know that I cannot work for him.”
“Cannot?” Georgie says with a cocked brow. “Non, ma belle… you will not.”
“Imagine if I have to set dates with women—” I argue.
“You will. Undoubtedly, that will happen,” Georgie agrees quickly. “But then you will be the master of his domain.”
“What?”
“You will hold the keys to his kingdom, Abby,” Georgie says with a great deal of gusto. “Think about it.”
“I’m not following—”
“You can finally see him for who he is,” Georgie continues as if I haven’t spoken. “You will get to live with him in his world. See every part of his personality. Maybe he isn’t what you think, maybe, you will finally rid yourself of this dreadful crush.”
“Dreadful?”
“It has handicapped you in many ways,” he points out the obvious. “You’ve lived your life pining after him, even when you were in a relationship with other men. You’ve compared every man to him. Everything has always come down to Michael Sinclair.”
“That’s not fair,” I argue.
“How many nights have we spent talking about him?” Georgie counters. “How many nights have we spent dissecting his words, his actions, his looks even?”
“Some…” I shrug defensively.
“Some?” Georgie raises a brow in disdain. “Most. We have searched the internet for him. We have found pictures of the women he dated and picked them apart. We have gone to restaurants, clubs, and pubs, that you believed he might be at so that you might casually run into him.”
“All right—” I try to stop Georgie from speaking any more.
“Not only that, ma belle,” he continues dramatically, sounding almost horrified. “We have stalked him like common criminals. I, Comte Georges de Banville, have been an accomplice to your insanity!”
“Georgie!” I gasp. Just hearing him paint the picture makes me seem almost—
“Oui, Abby,” my friend says as if he can read my mind. “He makes you crazy. What is more, I feel that unstable, Single White Female alter ego of yours has the potential to rear her ugly head at any time. All because you are hoping that one day he will turn to you and admit his true feelings.”
It’s really sad that I can’t deny his words.
“I’m not that bad,” I argue.
Georgie’s look stops me from saying any more.
“I think of this as your chance,” Georgie says with a wave of his hand. “You can test the waters in an opportunity that was never given to you before. It’s not like seeing him two times a year and briefly flirting and dreaming about that flirtation for the next six months of your life. You will be with him every day, Abby.”
Every day.
I can’t deny it. The thought thrills me.
“You will see him for who he is. You will know him in every way. And you will finally be given a chance to see if he is as attracted to you as you are to him. Or sadly, if you are just crazy and cursed with an overactive imagination.”
Georgie smiles at me.
“I wouldn’t say no to his generous offer just yet.”
CHAPTER THREE
“You’re fired.”
To be fair, Ronald looks grossly uncomfortable as he tells me the words I had a distinct feeling would be coming for me.
“But—” I begin quickly, ready to put up a fight.
Ronald holds up his hand to stop me from talking.
“Abby,” he says. “Please don’t make this any harder on either one of us. You are not good at being a barista. You should never be one again. Ever. Like really, ever. Go find something that suits you. In retail, maybe? You seem to have a good fashion sense.”
Ronald doesn’t seem convinced by his suggestion.
“I need this job.” My voice sounds small.
“I’m sorry, Abby,” Ronald shakes his head. “But you’ll just have to find another. I need someone here that knows what they’re doing. And it’s not just that—the other staff has been complaining about you not pulling your weight.”
“I’m trying,” I insist.
“It shouldn’t be so hard.”
“I can stay late—” I’m practically begging now.
“No,” Ronald shakes his head. “It’s over. I can pay you out for the week, but that’s it. I’m sorry.”
Ronald leaves me in the employee room, and I feel the sudden urge to either cry uncontrollably or shop myself to death. The problem is, I don’t have the money to do the latter.
I pick up my bag with as much dignity as I can muster and leave through the back exit. I don’t want to run into any of the other employees, and I know there really isn’t anyone who’ll be sorry to see me go. I welcome the cold air and rain when I’m outside and pull out my phone from my purse.
“Oui?” I hear Georgie’s familiar voice.
“I was sacked,” I tell him.
“Ahh,” he doesn’t sound surprised at all.
“Aren’t you going to ask why? Or defend me?” I prod.
“Non,” Georgie replies, sounding bored. “There is a reason why I avoid that coffee shop now.”
“Georgie!”
“Ma chère, being a barista is not your calling.” His voice is firm. “Now call Michael, who is a much better choice. He needs a PA and you now need a job. See how perfect it is?”
“It’s not perfect,” I counter. “It’s dangerous.”
“Oui. There is a possibility it will be difficult for your heart,” Georgie agrees. “But c’est la vie. Take a chance, ma chère. It’s the perfect time in your life to try it out. Think about all the changes you’ve been making. All the chances you’re taking. This is just another one.”
The way Georgie lays out his argument gives me a glimmer of hope.
And possibility.
“I’m hanging up now,” Georgie continues. “Call me after you speak to him. I’ll take you to dinner to celebrate.”
He hangs up before I can respond.
I stare at my phone for a long minute.
Take a chance, Abby.
I know if I give myself time to think about it, I’ll come up with a million reasons why I shouldn’t take the job, so I make my decision.
My heart beats a mile a minute at the thought of even calling Michael. Of hearing his voice. It’s pathetic really, how giddy I am over the possibility. I walk into the closest café and sit down at an empty table
. My phone and I have a stare-off for a long minute before I throw caution to the wind and just go for it.
Since I can’t bring myself to actually call him, I text instead.
ME: Good morning, Michael. I hope you had a wonderful evening. It’s Abby, in case you’re wondering.
I press send and immediately feel hives begin to form at the thought of him not responding. I will die if I don’t hear back from him. Like crawl-in-a-fetal-position-under-my-dining-table-and-cry-myself-silly die.
Luckily, my phone pings a second later.
MICHAEL: I know who it is. I trust you’re well.
It’s like I can hear his mocking voice as he types the words. I know my text was stiff and formal—proper as he would say—but I didn’t know how else to begin. Then the thrill of texting with him for the first time washes over me, intermingled with my nerves, and I find myself trying to hide a goofy smile.
ME: I am, thank you.
MICHAEL: Is everything good?
ME: Yes.
Just ask the damn question, Abby, my mind shouts out in anger.
Now or never. I type away.
ME: This might come as a surprise, but I was wondering if the job is still available?
I don’t have to wait long for a text back as my phone immediately begins to ring. My heart is in my throat when I answer.
“Hi,” I say shyly.
“Where are you?” Michael demands in that sexy voice of his.
“Out shopping,” I lie.
“The job is still available,” he tells me.
My heart thumps against my chest.
“Can you come by my office?” he asks quickly.
Vanity kicks in and I think about what I’m wearing. Black jeans, boots, and a matching sweater. Is it cute enough? Sexy? I run a hand through my freshly washed brown hair.
You’re going in for a job interview, Abby, not to be his girlfriend.
“What time?” I ask throwing caution to the wind.
“Now.”
I’m surprised he has the time to see me so fast.
“I think I can make it work,” I force myself to speak. “Can I get your address?”
“I’ll text it to you,” he says quickly. “I’ll be waiting.”
