by Penny Wylder
“And your shit job doesn’t pay a living wage. Am I getting this right so far?” he says.
My shoulders drop and I close my eyes. I should jump out of one of those windows. The glass looks pretty thick. I’d probably just knock myself out and wake up back in this nightmare again. I glance at the door. Stay or run? Decisions.
Since I’m about to be fired, I might as well be honest. “My job is difficult. I’ve always wanted a job in the fashion industry, and I’ve put a lot of time and effort into it with little reward, if I’m being honest. It might be more tolerable if I didn’t have to work under that little greasy McNugget down there, but I do—or at least I did—and so no, it’s not the greatest job.”
That felt good to say out loud. I’m glad it’s off my chest. Now it’s time to have my ass handed to me. I sit back in the chair and prepare for a tongue lashing.
“What if I offered you something better?” he says.
Wait, what’s happening? I stare at him, waiting for him to say more, something like ‘you might’ve gotten something better if you hadn’t called your job “shit”.’ But he doesn’t follow it up with anything and I’m confused as hell. I tell the owner of the company my job is shit and suddenly I’m up for a promotion? No, this can’t be right. There has to be a catch.
“Like that?” I wrack my brain, trying to think of what types of jobs I’m qualified for. There are several, but those positions are already filled. Unless someone else is about to be fired. I cross my fingers and hope if someone gets fired, it’s my troll of a boss. The guy really is a complete idiot and doesn’t deserve to be in charge of anyone.
“I need a personal assistant.”
I lift my head, eyes widening. Me, the personal assistant to one of the wealthiest and most influential people in the city? I could do it, of course. The job would certainly be difficult. He’s a busy man and a personal assistant would basically be in charge of running his life, but I’m up for the challenge for sure, especially if the price is right. And I have to admit, being with Marcus Steere day in and day out sounds pretty good to me. A little eye candy is definitely a bonus.
When I look at him, he wears an expression that makes me think there’s a ‘but’ at the end of this deal.
So let’s just get on with it. “But?” I say, lowering my level of excitement.
“But …” he says, looking slightly awkward which is surprisingly endearing on him. He is so polished and stalwart in his role as ‘rich guy who has his shit together,’ that it’s hard to picture him as anything else. I find this human side of him far more approachable, which makes whatever ‘but’ coming my way not as scary.
He clears his throat and continues. “Part of this personal assistant job is pretending to be my wife.”
I choke out a cough. I thought I was prepared for anything, but I did not see that coming.
“Your what?” I say, standing up, then sitting back down again after getting dizzy from standing up too fast.
His long fingers drum the top of the desk. “I need someone to go with me to Paris for a business meeting. My ex-wife will be there. She owns a rather large share of the company and I’d like to buy it from her. The problem is, she’s under the impression that she and I will be together again someday and so she doesn’t want to sell me the shares for fear of its permanence. If she sees that I’ve moved on and have married someone else, perhaps she’ll be willing to let go.”
I still haven’t quite gotten past the part where he wants me to pretend to be his wife. All the details start to catch up with me one by one and a bigger picture comes into view. I’m not sure how I feel about it. I mean, pretending to be the wife of one of the hottest men I’ve ever seen doesn’t sound like a bad gig if I’m being honest, but I’m not sure I have the breeding to pull it off.
No one is going to look at me and think ‘now there’s a rich man’s wife.’ I’m more like the kind of girl someone would look at and think ‘now there’s the wife of a rough-neck stuck on an oil rig.’ Not that there’s anything wrong with me. I get plenty of attention from men of all means, but I’m a bit rough around the edges—street-style I guess you might call it. Everything I own is affordable. Target is as high-end as I go when it comes to shopping. Last time I had wine, it was from a discount store and came in a box. I’ve never been in a plane before—nor do I ever want to be in one because flying seems terrifying. So, yeah, not exactly what you would call sophisticated. I don’t know what his ex-wife is like, but I’m guessing she probably doesn’t live in her car and I doubt she’s wearing yesterday’s clothes.
“What would I have to do?” I say, giving him a knowing look, because there are certain things that husbands and wives expect from each other that I’m not willing to give for any amount of money.
He laughs, obviously seeing where I’m going with this. It strikes me as odd and catches me a bit off guard, how casual he is even though he looks pristine. His laugh is melodious and puts me at ease.
“Nothing like that. Your only job will be to accompany me to the meeting and be seen with me in public—oh, and to look at me adoringly. I really need you to sell this relationship.”
Well, looking at him adoringly shouldn’t be all that hard. It’s difficult not to. He’s beautiful.
“Okay, that sounds easy enough. What else?” I ask.
“We’ll need to present a united front here, at this store. Word needs to get back to my ex that I’ve moved on and what better than a little gossip to get it there. She’ll never believe me if I tell her myself. She’ll sense a trick.”
The thought of everyone at the store, co-workers I’ve been around since I started working here four years ago, thinking I’ve slept my way to the top doesn’t sit well with me, but neither does another night sleeping in my car. I still need to get ahold of my insurance company. Maybe they’ll cut me a check soon and I can pass on this bizarre offer. As tempting as it sounds to be holed up in a room with him and hanging on the arm of arguably the sexiest man alive, I don’t know if it’s worth losing the respect of my co-workers. After this arrangement is over and he gets his company back, we’ll stop pretending to be a couple and I’m going to have to face these people on a daily basis—that is, if I still have my job after that.
“And, of course, you’ll be paid well,” he says
There they are, the magic words I’ve been waiting for. I sit forward, eagerly waiting.
“Aside from a significant pay raise as my personal assistant, you’ll get a bonus for pretending to be my wife.”
“A bonus?”
I get this warm, fuzzy feeling inside. During the holidays all the employees get a thousand-dollar bonus and usually some new expensive tech device. That kind of money would be a life-saver right now.
I cross my fingers and say to myself, over and over, please let it be a thousand-dollars, please let it be a thousand dollars.
“Yes, a bonus. On top of your new wages, I will buy you a new house.”
I nearly fall out of my chair. “A house?” I say, my voice a high keen. I’m barely able to contain myself.
“Yes, Ruby, a house.” He shows me the most adorable playful smile that makes my heart thud in my chest.
I tell my heart to knock that shit off. This is business. No time to be fooling around with a crush on the man who holds my future in his very big, very nice looking hands.
This sounds too good to be true. It probably is. I want to say yes, but I can’t. Not yet. I have to see what my insurance says first.
“Can I think about it?” I ask.
“Of course. Take the day off. Talk to the McNugget downstairs and let him know you’re taking a personal day. I’ll make sure you won’t be written up.”
My face heats up and I’m embarrassed for letting him know how much I can’t stand the store manager. I’ve been so unprofessional. I can’t believe I haven’t been fired yet. There’s still time for me to screw that up, though. I need to get out of here and get my head straight.
�
�Thank you,” I say.
He hands me a card with his personal number on it. When I reach for it, our fingers touch and I feel a spark of something that makes me tingle all over. His eyes widen the slightest bit and I wonder if he felt it too.
After I leave, I lean against the wall outside of his office and let out a long breath. I have so much to think about. But first I have to pee. Oh right, and make a phone call.
2
I spend the rest of the day on the phone with the insurance company. Turns out if you burn your house down through every fault of your own, they don’t want to give you money for it. I’m not getting a single penny.
I lean back in the seat of my car, heart racing. I close my eyes to keep the world from tilting. My hands fist in my hair and I scream. A blood-curdling, animal-raging scream. And then I start to cry. All of that money I invested into my home was for nothing. That was years of saving, not to mention all of the priceless things I owned that had belonged to my parents. Things I’d planned to give to my children one day after I started a family of my own.
I want to curl up in the back of my car and cry some more—that ugly type of crying that gives you wrinkles and makes your features look as though your face is melting. I’m just about to do that when my phone chimes. I look at it and there’s a text from an unknown number: Are you all right?
I furrow my brow in confusion and type back: Who is this?
Unknown number: Look up
I look up and see a new black Jaguar parked in front of me among the Corollas and the Civics. It looks out of place with its sleek lines and custom paint. Leaning against the back of the car is Marcus Steere. He raises his hand and gives me a stiff wave.
My stomach sinks when I realize he just watched me have a meltdown, and again I’m struck with the overwhelming urge to crawl into the back of my car and never come out—the trunk this time, where it’s dark and he can’t find me.
As he comes around to the passenger side of the car, my hands start to shake. No, please don’t get in the car, it’s such a mess in here! Not only that, but it’s a piece of shit. An early 2000s sub-compact with over two-hundred thousand miles on the odometer. It breaks down more often than it runs, and the guy at the auto shop is so familiar with me that he knows the sound of my voice on the other end of the phone without me even saying my name.
To make matters worse, whoever owned the car before me smoked and the stale smell of cigarettes still lingers, plus there are burn-holes in the fabric. My leopard print seat covers hide the holes in the front seats, but there’s no hope for the back or floor boards.
He can’t read my mind, so he opens the door and slides into the seat beside me.
He looks around and frowns. He clearly doesn’t like what he sees. “I really don’t pay you enough, do I?”
Can someone die from humiliation? Kill me now. “No, you don’t.”
He gives me that sideways smile of his that is just about the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. The fact that it’s aimed at me feels like charity because I am nothing to smile at right now.
I think this might be the first time I’ve really paid attention to his face. When I was in his office, I was mostly focused on all his cool stuff. At first glance, he’s handsome. Anyone can see that. But when you really study his face, you see all the little nuances: the straight nose; the small scar that runs across his top lip; a dimple in one cheek but not the other; the cleft in his chin. He’s not just handsome, but interesting to look at. It’s those little details that make him look human and touchable and kissable, instead of just like a mannequin .
“I bet my offer is starting to sound pretty good right about now,” he says.
I imagine being on his arm, pretending to be his wife, looking at him longingly and not just because it’s expected. To my surprise, I want to have the job as his wife, and not just because of the money.
“I’ll do it,” I say a bit too eagerly.
His sideways smile turns into a full grin. “Perfect. Before you leave for the day, why don’t you go in and let Leonard know he’ll need to hire a replacement.”
I nod. I hate the idea of facing my boss—former boss—again, but the thought of him knowing I’ll be taking a position as Marcus Steere’s personal assistant, and out-ranking him for that matter, is going to be priceless.
As I walk back into the building, my mind is a hurricane of confusion. The money I’m getting is going to change my life, and that’s what I should be thinking about, but underneath that is the excitement about working so close to Marcus Steere.
As I walk to the office I’ve worked in for the last four years, I’m giddy. There’s still an underlying sense of disappointment that my house is gone, but there’s hope, too.
Leonard looks up from his desk and watches me walk across the room. As I start to clean out my desk, a smirk forms on his thin turtle lips.
“It’s about time you got canned,” he says smugly.
I give him back the same smirk he gives me. “Actually, I didn’t get fired, I got promoted.”
His eyes narrow. “Bullshit.”
I laugh in surprise. Leonard is a stickler for the rules, and I know for a fact that words like ‘bullshit’ aren’t allowed in the workplace.
“Not bullshit. Mr. Steere seems to think my job here is below me, so he made me his personal assistant. Looks like I’ll be your superior now.”
He stands up so suddenly it knocks his chair over and startles me. “Bullshit,” he says louder, almost yelling it. Several of the workers on the floor glance toward the office. I fight the smile pulling at my lips. “I’ve been putting in for a position as his PA for years. There’s no way you got that job over me.”
I put the last of my things in a box. “Ask him,” I say with a shrug and head out to my car.
It’s kind of nice to have an entire day to myself. Last time I had a day off in the middle of the week was when I had the flu a year ago. I’m going to have to figure out what to do about my living situation. My new job as a PA is going to finally give me a living wage, but I won’t get paid for another week. In the meantime, I need a place to stay. Spending the night in my car was well and good for the night, but finding a place to park so I won’t get towed seems an impossible task. It’s difficult to find parking during the day for a couple hours, let alone an entire night. The city is extremely picky about cars staying in one place for any length of time.
Once I’m in my car, I head over to the diner. I need to tell Alba the news. It’s the lunch rush, so the parking lot is packed. I park in the alley when I can’t find anything in the lot or on the street. As long as no trucks show up to make a delivery, I should be good. I’ve been hanging around this diner long enough to know deliveries happen early in the morning and late at night before closing.
Inside the diner I find the last available seat at the counter and plop down with a heavy sigh. Alba is running around with a carafe of water in one hand and a coffee pot in the other. When she sees me, a large smile spreads across her face. A regular sitting at the end of the counter comments that she never smiles at him like that. She’s quick to respond that her best smiles are reserved for her best friend.
She moves swiftly and efficiently as if she were gliding on rails. “Pie?” she says, overturning a coffee cup and sliding it toward me. I catch it before it slips off the end of the counter.
“Cobbler, please.”
After she scrambles around for a while, checking to make sure her customers have everything they need, she gets her mom to cover her tables so she can go on break. She hops on a stool next to me and puts two pieces of peach cobbler between us.
“Tell me everything,” she says. “Have you talked to your insurance?”
“Yes,” I say, my mouth full after stuffing my face with a forkful of pie.
“And?”
“And they aren’t going to give me any money for my house.”
She pauses mid-bite. “What?”
“It’s fine because I got a rai
se and I’ll be getting a bonus in a few weeks.”
I don’t tell her what that bonus is. I figured I should tell her the story in baby steps because the entire offer is so surreal.
“What aren’t you telling me?” she says.
I chew what’s in my mouth, giving myself some time to figure out how to explain without it sounding like a Pretty Woman situation. I mean, getting paid to pretend I’m someone’s wife doesn’t exactly sound like a legit business deal.
“The bonus is enough to get me into a new house.”
“That’s amazing. It’s about time that weasel Leonard rewards you for all the hard work you do,” Alba says.
“Actually, that weasel is no longer my boss, Marcus Steere is.”
“The Marcus Steere?” Her mouth falls open and it’s full of food, which kind of grosses me out, so I reach out and push her chin so it closes.
She laughs. “What, you don’t want to see this?” She sticks out tongue and I laugh and try not to gag at the same time.
“Stop. And yes, the Marcus Steere is now my boss. I’m his personal assistant and his …” I mumble the last words.
She wrinkles her brow. “I didn’t catch that last part.”
I hesitate because it sounds so bad. Better to rip the band aid off. “He’s paying me to pretend to be his wife.”
“What?!” The word belts from her mouth and everyone in the diner turns to look at us.
“Jesus, Alba, keep it down.”
Her mom glares at us. I shrug an apology.
“Oh my God, are you serious? You’re going to have to go into more detail because I’m struggling to figure out a scenario where any of this makes sense. How did you possibly go from being a clerk in a high-end clothing store to being the personal assistant and pretend wife of fucking Marcus Steere?”
“It’s a long story.”
