by Alexis James
Tossing the sheet aside, I set my feet on the floor and attempt to regulate my breathing. It’s not easy, never has been, and some nights I wonder if one of these horrors is going to send me into a full-on heart attack. I’m not getting any younger, that’s for sure, although the majority of heart attacks don’t happen to perfectly healthy thirty-three-year-old males who exercise religiously every single day.
The bedroom is dark, save for the moonlight bleeding across the wood floor through the large expanse of windows lining one entire wall. Heavy drapes flank each end of the glass, but not once have I ever felt the need to shield myself from the view. The only way someone could see into the house would be by boat. If someone is that desperate to see me prancing naked around my own house, and will use a boat and binoculars to do that, then by all means go ahead and try. I’m not modest anyway, and since I’m the only person who ever has been or ever will be in this room, modesty is not exactly an issue.
Padding down the short hall and then the two flights of stairs, I make my way through the dark into the kitchen on the bottom floor. Moonlight shines through every available window as I wind through the large sterile space, retrieve a glass, and fill it to the brim with water. Drinking greedily, I swipe at the sweat that continues to drip down my forehead and glance at the digital clock on the stove.
It’s the same thing every night. Same nightmare. Same damn reaction. Nothing ever changes. Nothing has changed, not in the last fifteen years. Not since my future was upended, and I began paying the price for what I’d done. I don’t expect things will ever change and, really, they shouldn’t. I deserve every nightmare, every heart-jolting fear. Every single painful bit.
Chugging down more water, I set the empty glass in the sink and move out of the kitchen into the den area. There are many rooms in this house, too many to count, most of which will never be used. Other than the day I moved in, some five years ago or so, I highly doubt I’ve ever set foot in either the formal living or dining rooms or any of the five guest rooms. The truth is I have no idea why I purchased a house this big, other than the fact that it says a lot about the kind of man I am, or at least about how much money I make. It has a great view of Biscayne Bay, the azure waters spilling right up to my own personal dock at the edge of the property, which like the majority of the home, is never used. The property is secluded and gated, ensuring my privacy and security. And yes, I like the fact that I have something tangible to show for all the long hours I spend at the office.
My mother hounds me incessantly to get married and fill my massive house with plenty of bambinos. Like my irritating HR manager, my mother cannot seem to get it through her head that I have no intention of marrying or settling down in any capacity. Ever. And children? Not hardly. Marriage and children are for people who deserve such wealth in their lives. Me? I have a penance that will take a lifetime to pay.
Taking the stairs two at a time, I walk back into the bedroom and briefly consider changing the damp sheets for fresh ones. Since the chances are high that I’ll have another nightmare before the sun comes up, I set the thought aside and glance at the walk-in closet. An invisible magnetic pull draws me across the floor and into the room that is the size of most people’s bedrooms. Flicking the switch on the wall, the space is illuminated in a soft, low glow radiating from canned lights spaced evenly across the ceiling. Racks of suits and neatly pressed shirts line both walls and a long, low row of drawers holds court in the middle of the space. The marble counter top is clutter free, as is everything in my house, holding only the few basic items I require on a daily basis: a lint brush, shoe-polishing cloth, and the glass bowl with my sunglasses, keys and wallet.
Moving to the back of the closet, I pull open the bottom drawer. Tucked under my Harvard sweatshirt and a god-awful sweater my sister Sophia made me when she took a knitting class a few years ago is the one and only memento I allow myself to have easy access to. Anything else would feel indulgent. Hell, this one thing is indulgent, but I justify it as I bring the photo closer to my face. I need this reminder of what I did, of what I allowed to happen so easily. Too easily.
Her smile is wide, the small gap between her front teeth almost invisible in this image. Her dark hair is pulled back into a high pony tail, certainly not my preferred hairstyle for her but beautiful all the same. And those eyes … those eyes will forever haunt me, taunt me, torment me. Those eyes used to tell me silently how much I meant to her. Those eyes used to shine up at mine, and I knew without a doubt we were meant to be together forever. Those eyes used to draw me in, make me hers, leave me shaking in ecstasy and immediately asking for more.
Those eyes are the ones I see in my nightmares. Eyes wide with panic, filled with fear, vacant in death. Those eyes will never again shine on me like I’m the rising and setting sun. Those eyes will never again shed a tear over a stupid fight or a surge of pure happiness. Those eyes will never again silently beg for me to take her somewhere private, some place where we can lose ourselves in one another again and again and again.
A lump gathers painfully in my throat and my eyes pinch, threatening to unleash the tears I’ve held at bay for a long, long time. Too long, most likely, but with most things regarding her, tears are an indulgence I am not allowed. I lost the right to cry over her years ago.
With a curse, I shove the photograph back into the drawer, under the ugly sweater and the faded Harvard sweatshirt, back into its hiding place as if the darkness will erase all I’ve done. I’m fully aware no amount of hiding, no amount of justification or denial will change the fact I’m standing here alive and she’s not. I’m standing here because I allowed her to be taken from me, because I was a coward, because I was helpless, and because I wasn’t brave enough or strong enough to help her. To save her. I’m standing here, paying the price for what I’ve done, each and every day.
I hit the switch on my way out, sending the bedroom spiraling back into the moonlit darkness once again. The sheets are damply chilled when I sprawl out and tuck my arm under my head. I highly doubt sleep will return, but I have to at least make an attempt. My sanity depends on it.
I wonder what she’d think if she could see me now … if she’d somehow managed to live the full life she should have. Would she like the man I’ve become? Would she be proud of all I’ve accomplished? Would I even have become this man at all had fate not stepped in and taken her from me?
Would she even be a part of my life now?
Sadly, the realist in me assumes no. High school romances generally are not something long-lasting—although, we did manage to last four years, which is a whole lot longer than any of our friends ever did way back then. I can’t help but imagine what would have happened if our hopes and dreams would have reached fruition, if we’d have gone to college together like we’d planned, lived in the dorms the first year, lived together in an apartment after that. Would we have married after college? I’d like to think we would have. We did talk about it all the time.
I sure as hell had my head in the clouds back then. Yes, I was young, and yes, we lived our lives mostly in a world of romance and make-believe. But at the core, she and I were two people who really understood one another, respected one another, and loved one another … unconditionally.
Fifteen years has changed nothing. Everything is just as raw, just as painful, just as real as it was the months following the accident. Now I’m left with the knowledge that I have everything a man could ever ask for: my own company, a beautiful home, and enough money to live comfortably for the rest of my life. The only thing missing is the one person I always imagined being right by my side. The one person who I was unable to save.
Ask any owner, any boss, and he or she will most likely tell you the key to running a successful business is having a competent assistant. Assistants can make or break a CEO, depending on her (or sometimes his) capability of keeping a ridged appointment schedule, their impeccable attention to detail, and always managing to stay one step ahead of everything. The ability to ant
icipate and react is key. Having the wherewithal to make a decision, knowing it’s in the best interest of the company and the boss (in this case me) is without a doubt a game changer.
Two weeks into my bevy of numerous temps, I’m bogged down with a crazy and very unpredictable schedule. I have numerous fires that need putting out, pissed off clients, and stacks of paperwork to complete and organize. Suffice it to say that even my own brothers are avoiding me. My wrath is bad on a good day, so one can only imagine how combustible I am fielding my own phone calls and constantly rearranging my schedule on my own.
Thank God Liza just informed me she hired someone, although I didn’t really give her much choice. By the end of week one, with all the inept temps, I told her to hire the first person that interviewed for the job. In the past, I preferred to at least have one meeting prior to a job offer, but I don’t have time to even answer the damn phone and sure as hell don’t have time to make nice with some broad who will most likely only last a few months. Retaining assistants has not exactly been my forte.
It’s now six o’clock on Monday morning, and I’m literally counting the minutes until my new assistant arrives. I spent the weekend making lists for her: what to work on first, which calls to return immediately. Then I made another set of lists: who to contact about what, basic ins and outs of running my everyday life, and even something as mundane as my preferred restaurants for lunch. I’m taking nothing for granted this time, and since I don’t have the luxury of sitting around and answering all the questions she’s bound to have, I decided to put everything down on paper as a somewhat proactive preparation and time-saver all rolled into one.
Five minutes to seven there’s a soft knock on my door. Dragging on my suit coat as I get to my feet, I stroll across the office with a purposeful stride, ready to get my work life back in order. At some point over the weekend I do remember perusing my new assistant’s resume, but for the life of me I can’t remember her name—an embarrassment for sure. Forgetting things is not something I do, so I can only blame my lack of interest on the fact I’ve been overwhelmed these past few weeks. Not an excuse. Frankly, I’m not concerned whether or not she’s insulted. Her opinion of me doesn’t matter. All I need from her is to get in and get the job done. I don’t need her to like me or to respect me. As long as she’s competent and willing to work the long hours I need her to, I’ll reward her with a very healthy salary. Seems like a fair deal to me.
I give the door a firm yank and pull it open. In that brief span of time, my eyes drift briefly over the petite, young woman standing just beyond the threshold. Her smile is timid but her large almond-shaped brown eyes are curious and maybe even slightly amused.
She nods once and says softly, “Hello Mr. Moran.”
Her voice has an ethereal quality to it—gentle, lilting, and musical—but she is all business everywhere else. Her dark hair is pulled back into a tight bun and the black suit and white blouse discreetly attempt to hide what I can tell is a curvy little body. She’s staring up at me as I loom over her (at least a foot, maybe more), and the moment our eyes meet she looks away and takes a small step back. I briefly consider that I somehow frighten her but am quick to dismiss the thought. My only concern is for the job at hand, not this tiny woman standing uneasily in front of me.
“Miss …”
She flushes and looks away again. “Elliott. Mia Elliott. Your new assistant.”
Nodding, I thrust my hand out and watch as she hesitantly slides her much smaller one into mine. A fusion of warmth skitters up my wrist and arm at the touch of her soft skin to mine, and I quickly release her hand and motion toward the desk that sits just outside the large double doors where we’re standing.
“This is your workstation. I’ve left you a lot of reading material. When you’re done, let me know. Liza has some paperwork for you later and will show you around the offices.”
Her cheeks flush again and she smiles hesitantly. “Alright. Well, I’ll get to it, then.”
I continue to watch as she moves toward the desk, stashing her handbag off to one side and settling in the high-backed chair. The soft scent of her perfume, something tropical and intoxicating, lingers briefly in the air. The moment she turns to give me that deer in the headlights look again, I’m reminded all too well that I have no business noticing things like perfume or the touch of a hand in mine. Turning quickly, I move back into my office and give the door a nice, hearty slam.
Back behind my desk, I dig through the mound of paperwork stacked according to priority and attempt to locate her resume. Might as well reacquaint myself with her bio. It’s the least I can do since I managed to forget her name. However, thumbing through mounds of papers only reminds me that I have much more pressing issues than the history of my new assistant. That information will have to wait.
I’m so intent on making some headway in my work, when the intercom buzzes loudly, I’m shocked to find hours have passed. “Yes?”
“Sir, Ms. Anders is here to take me down to HR. Is there anything you need before I leave?”
Her sing-song voice is far different than any of the others who have held that post. Most bark loudly into the damn thing, figuring I must be deaf as well as being a rude, arrogant jerk. She, on the other hand, speaks just as she did before. Soft, respectful, and reserved. “No.”
“Fine. I’ll return soon.”
Unfortunately, with her being gone again, I have to resort to answering my own phone, which is a constant interruption and leaves me unable to concentrate on anything. So while I’m cursing under my breath, ineptly attempting to multitask, my youngest brother, Roman, comes strolling through the door, grinning ear to ear.
“Hey, big brother. You look frazzled.”
My eyes make a cursory sweep up his jean-clad figure. “And you don’t look the least bit professional.”
He throws me an eye roll and slumps down into the chair across from me. “Chill out. I’m headed to the site.”
Roman is the head of my construction department, and as such has a certain amount of responsibility—one being that he’s supposed to dress appropriately and not like a damn college student in tattered jeans and faded concert tees. He’s an extremely hard worker and like me is driven to succeed. However, in this one area we butt heads constantly.
“What if the client shows up on the job site?”
He shrugs and throws me one of his trademark dimpled grins. “Then he’ll see that I work just as hard as my men.” Leaning forward, he clasps his hands and attempts to give me a serious look. “Mama is worried about you.”
It’s my turn for an eye roll, and I throw in a toss of my pen for added benefit. “Mama always worries about me. That’s nothing new.”
“Come on, man, just give her a call. Let her know that you aren’t buried under all the paperwork on your desk.” He eyes the mounds I’ve yet to get through. “On second thought, maybe you are.”
I give him a good stare down. “I have things to do. Did you come in here just to remind me to call our mother?”
He grins again and rises to his feet. “That, and I wanted to compliment you.” I shoot him a quizzical look and thumb through the bid in front of me. “Your new assistant is smokin’.”
Another eye roll and a good, firm point of my finger. “Out. Now.”
Roman chuckles and saunters toward the door. “I may need to get to know her.”
“Don’t.”
He throws me a wave and proceeds to laugh loudly until the door is pulled closed once again.
Fantastic. Just what I need: my little brother trolling around after my new assistant. Roman is many things, but first and foremost he considers himself a great romancer. He goes through women like water, always leaving them brokenhearted and wanting more. My mom’s nickname for him is Romeo, but to me he’s nothing more than a man-whore like Marco. Roman makes no bones about the fact that he sleeps with numerous women, never committing to anyone and always on the hunt for his next true love. I must say, I do wonder
when some lady is going to come along and teach him a lesson or two.
That lady sure as hell won’t be my assistant. Not if I have anything to say about it.
I’m so fixated on work I don’t even stop to eat, look at the clock, or ask myself why all of a sudden my phone has stopped ringing. I’ve made great headway today, sorted everything into piles of importance, left a huge stack for my assistant to organize and file, and when I finally look up at the clock and see it’s after five o’clock. I wonder if said assistant decided that this job wasn’t cut out for her after all. I haven’t heard word one all day. Though to be fair, I did leave her with some large lists of to-dos to tackle.
Just when I’m considering calling Liza to see what transpired down in HR, there’s a soft knock on my door. After my greeting, my new assistant comes strolling into the office, tablet in hand, as well as a thick folder, pen, and yellow note pad.
“Do you have a minute to go over a few things?” she asks, waiting for my nod before she takes the seat across from me. She sets the folder on the opposite chair and briefly glances up at me before looking directly at the tablet on her lap while she speaks. “I’ve organized your schedule and sent it to your phone and computer. Please take a look at it when you can and let me know if there’s anything I need to add or change.”
I hit a few buttons and sure enough, up pops my calendar—a now perfectly color-coded and organized calendar. A quick glance at my week tells me everything is in order. “Looks good. What’s next?”
She nods curtly. “Tomorrow you have a meeting first thing with the design department.”
“Yes, I see that.”
