ARROGANT MASTER

by Winter Renshaw

  I lean in, closing the gap between myself and a receptionist who doesn’t appear to be much older than me. She seems nice enough, and I know she’s only doing her job, but I’m not ready to walk away yet.

  “Look, I came all the way here.” There’s a quiver in my words that I make no point in trying to hide. “I need this interview.”

  “I understand that, Miss…”

  “Miller. Bellamy Miller.”

  “Yes, I understand that, Miss Miller.” Her lips widen into a pained wince while her eyes attempt to hold sympathy and fail miserably. “I’m terribly sorry. There’s nothing I can do. Anyway, Mr. Mutchler is out on business today. I can ask him when he returns tomorrow, and if he agrees, our H.R. department can get in touch with you.”

  “Is there someone else who might be available for an interview?”

  Her eyes glide over my shoulder and land on the gentleman behind me. She’s offering him a silent apology. Her winced face screams, “This girl is crazy. I’m sorry. Be patient. She’ll be out of here soon enough.”

  I collect the shattered remnants of my dignity off the floor and sling my bag over my shoulder.

  “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

  My head hangs as I avoid the intrusive stares of the people lined up behind me. I don’t know what they look like. I don’t know if their gapes are laced with pity or packed full of amusement.

  I don’t want to know.

  I want to get out of here, regroup, and come up with a plan B.

  My watch reads ten ‘til eleven, and the sign on a local bar and lounge claims it’ll be opening soon for the lunch crowd. I’ve never been a drinker, but today feels like a pretty good day to start.

  People drown their problems with alcohol for a reason. It must work.

  My mothers aren’t expecting me until this afternoon. They think I’ll be in the city all day, filling out hiring paperwork and getting a tour of my new office. I told them I was all but hired when they wished me luck that morning after breakfast.

  As far as I’m concerned, I have a hall-pass today.

  Never mind the fact that I’m twenty-two.

  A grown woman.

  A full-blown adult, even if I’m still living under my parents’ roof like a baby bird who never learned how to fly away from the nest. It was never that I couldn’t fly, just that I was never allowed.

  Until now.

  I spend the better part of ten minutes convincing myself it’s perfectly okay to enjoy an adult beverage at eleven on a Tuesday all by myself, and the second the proprietor flips the window sign to “open,” I show myself in and take the first bar stool on the left.

  The inside of the place is dark, and it almost feels like night. I suspect there’s a glaze on the windows, tinting them to give off just enough of a dusky ambiance to make people want to stay a while. I’m beginning to forget what all transpired just a little while ago, but I’m quite certain I’ll forget even more once I’m face to face with a stiff drink.

  Rows upon rows of glass liquor bottles in every shade from clear to brown to cobalt are backlit on shelves that span from the ceiling to the back of the bar. I glance around for a drink menu and find none. Maybe they’re not out yet?

  I suppose most drinkers don’t need menus. They know what they like. They know what’s good.

  “What can I get you, ma’am?” A gray-bearded bartender tucks a white rag into the back of his apron and rests his hands on his hips, studying me. “Are we having a drink today? Lunch? Both?”

  “I’d like a drink.” My words are slow and unnatural. I cringe on the inside. Hard. I sound like a foreigner in a strange new land, uttering an unfamiliar phrase, trying to blend in, yet making herself stand out even more. “What would you recommend?”

  His round head cocks sideways, and he chews on his lower lip before smacking the top of the bar with an open palm. “I know. A Manhattan.”

  “What’s in that?” Now I sound like a child afraid to try a new food their mother has laid out before them.

  “Whiskey, sweet vermouth, and bitters.”

  “I look like a Manhattan girl to you?”

  His head cocks and his lips curl into a slow grin. “Not at all. You look like a girl who’s never had a drink in her life.”

  I resent that, as true as it may be. “You’re wrong.”

  My father always said once a person starts lying, they never stop, and in the last week, I’ve proven him to be correct. I can’t get over how easy it feels to be in the company of this stranger, this Salt Lake City bartender, look him in the eye, and make him believe anything I want him to believe about me.

  I’ve been given a blank slate.

  No one knows me here.

  I can be anyone I want to be, even if it’s just for an hour or so.

  It’s a lot of power to place in the hands of a twenty-two-year-old girl who, her whole life, has never been allowed to spread her wings. Not once.

  “I’ll take champagne,” I declare, straightening my posture and crossing my legs.

  “Ah. A celebratory beverage.” He’s either making a statement or subtly hinting that he still doesn’t believe me.

  “Was just offered a new job.” I force a smile on my face, the one that would’ve been placed by an actual job offer.

  “We don’t sell by the glass,” he says. “But since you’re a champagne drinker, you should know that.”

  “Well aware,” I lie. That makes number three for the day and probably number sixteen for the week.

  My father was right.

  The bartender releases his grip on the ledge and his gaze from mine in one fluid whoosh and disappears in the back, emerging with a dark green bottle dripping with condensation. I squint from my perch at the end of the bar, failing to read the elaborate script font on the cream label.

  Jingle bells on the door slice through the quiet bar. My fingers rap against the marble counter as I stare ahead at a mounted T.V. screen.

  Today, I’m celebrating.

  A silent toast to my impending freedom.

  Even if I have to fight for that freedom.

  Even if I’ll do anything to obtain it.

  My mother’s words echo in my head as the bartender pops the cork. We were standing around the kitchen last week peeling carrots for a stew and discussing how it was Dad and Kath’s seventh anniversary when she turned to me and said, “You’re going to make a great first wife, Bellamy. Heaven help us if you’re ever a second or third wife like poor Kath.”

  She thought she was being cute, and she meant it in jest, but all it did was ignite a fire so deep in my soul all the water in the world won’t put it out.

  The new patron takes the stool two spots down from me. We’re separated by one seat. I resist the urge to huff or give them a single look. Eight other spots and this person has to sit close to me.

  “Here we are.” I glance at the bartender’s nametag, which reads Matt.

  I take the champagne glass by the stem like I’ve seen classy women do in movies and lift it in his direction. Today I’m fancy. Today I’m free.

  “Thank you, Matt.” The glass rim presses against my bottom lip.

  “Manhattan.” The customer two spots down has a voice smooth as velvet and laced with palpable virility. It commands my attention, dissolving my previous disinterest in two seconds flat.

  My God.

  My breath catches in my throat. I tilt the flute and take a small mouthful, letting the tiny bubbles dance on my tongue before quickly swallowing them. The last thing I want to do is choke them down like some amateur.

  The champagne is sweet, but not too sweet. The crispness is refreshing in a way I’m sure I’d appreciate much more if I weren’t so distracted by the suit sitting mere feet away from me. He’s sucked all the air from the room, I’m sure of it, because now I can’t seem to catch my breath.

  “If you’re going to stare, at least introduce yourself.” He speaks to me though he looks straight ahead.

  My jaw slacks, my
brain racking itself to come up with the appropriate comeback that doesn’t make me sound like a love-struck teenager noticing boys for the first time. I noticed boys a long time ago; I’d just never noticed anyone like him before.

  His elbows rest lightly against the bar, his hands gripping the shiny glass Matt just placed in front of him. Not a single spec of fuzz or stray hair clings to the impeccable fabric of his navy suit. Lush, dark hair covers his head, and his jaw hollows just below his cheekbone.

  They certainly don’t make them like him back in Whispering Hills.

  “She doesn’t speak English?” he asks Matt.

  “Bellamy Miller.” I don’t extend my hand; instead it rests firmly at the base of my champagne glass. I hold my head up high. If he’s going to sit there like some arrogant businessman, two can play that game. “And you would be…?”

  The curiously handsome and intensely haughty stranger turns my way, clearing his throat and tensing his jaw as his unyielding stare sharpens in my direction. The hollows of his cheekbones release and flex not once but twice. “Dane Townsend.”

  I expect him to smile or nod, and I wait in vain for his expression to soften.

  Instead, he huffs like I’m some nobody who’s suddenly invaded his personal space.

  Well, excuse me.

  I uncross and re-cross my legs the opposite way, turning back toward the T.V. Some soccer game is playing, and I pretend it’s the most engrossing thing I’ve ever seen. Anything is better than having a staring contest with the world’s most arrogant stranger.

  “I wasn’t done speaking to you.” His words slice through the tight space between us. His need to control and dominate this conversation is insulting.

  “Pardon me?”

  “I introduced myself, and then you said nothing and turned away.” He lifts his drink to his full mouth, his eyes burning into mine as he pulls in a sip. “It’s rude.”

  My jaw falls, and I jerk my attention away. Any quick fantasies I may have had about this man a few minutes ago have dissipated.

  I stare at my drink, squinting one eye and estimating that there might be a couple more ounces left to finish. A sigh escapes my lips when I promptly remember I bought the whole bottle. I’m certainly no champagne connoisseur, but this stuff doesn’t taste cheap.

  I’m going to be here a while.

  I can’t just skit out the door dragging my dignity behind me like I did at RJM Corporation.

  “My apologies.” I don’t mean it. I demolish the rest of my drink like I’m an old pro and nod at Matt before turning to Dane again. I know how to play this game. I know how to tell people what they want to hear to bandage an awkward situation. It’s practically my way of life at home, and it works like a charm with my father. “My mind must be elsewhere today. I didn’t intend to offend you.”

  “You didn’t offend me.”

  He’s slipping under my skin with skilled finesse, arrogance and all.

  “Good to hear.” I slide my empty glass toward Matt. I want another even though this one’s already snaking through me faster than I could’ve anticipated. I’m two seconds away from telling him to bother someone else if only there were someone else around for him to bother. “If you don’t mind.”

  I force a tight-lipped smile and nod toward the T.V., trying desperately to ignore the obnoxious amount of power this stranger wields in his unrelenting stare.

  Matt refills my drink, pouring clear to the top.

  Numb warmth invades my cheeks at the same time.

  This must be what a buzz feels like.

  “So what exactly are you celebrating today?” Dane asks. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen a young woman drinking champagne at eleven o’clock on a Tuesday.”

  “New job.” I refuse to make eye contact. I’m disengaging and hoping it’s only a matter of time before he takes the hint.

  “Where?”

  I swallow hard and clear my throat lightly.

  Of course he would ask that.

  “Mutchler Corporation.”

  His head tilts and his lips jut for a second. “Ah. Working for Randy?”

  My heart sputters to a stop.

  “Right.” I force a coolness in my tone that implies I wholeheartedly believe my own lies.

  “What will you be doing at RJM?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.” My brows lift as my eyes dart to him, desperate to gauge whether or not he’s buying this. “It’s not exactly official yet. Nothing’s been signed. The terms and titles are private. You know how that goes.”

  He can’t argue the details if I give him none.

  His palm rakes across the underside of his smooth, cleft chin as the corners of his mouth lift enough to show a hint of dimples. “I know exactly how that goes. I know Randy quite well. We run in the same…circles.”

  My cheeks flood with red, and I tilt my head down just enough that my hair covers them. Funny how lying could make me feel so powerful and invincible a second ago, and then this man so easily flips it all on its side.

  “Randy mentioned he was going to be hiring a…concierge.” Dane holds a wicked flash in his steely gaze. “What’s a girl like you doing taking a job like that?”

  “It sounded like an interesting job.” I sweep my hair from my shoulder and take another slow sip. “I guess I was the most qualified applicant.”

  Vagueness and ambiguity fuels this conversation though I’m not sure how much longer I can keep this running.

  “You don’t want to work for Randy,” he says, leaning into me. He flashes a white smile, the first one I’ve seen on him since he walked in here. My attraction to him, as much as I try to fight it, soars off the charts for a moment. “Trust me.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because you should be working for me.”

  I lean away, a laugh bubbling in my balled stomach. “You don’t mince words, do you?”

  “I’m a man who knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to go after it.”

  “Are you proposing that I work for you instead?”

  “I’m demanding that you not work for Randy.” His gaze floods my veins with warmth and overruns my thought process for a moment. “You’re all wrong for him. Believe me when I tell you that.”

  “Are you offering me a job?”

  I came to the city for a job. I’m determined to leave with one.

  At any cost.

  “It depends,” he says. “Can you offer me the same services, terms, and agreements you were going to offer Randy as his concierge?”

  “Of course.” I fight the rush of crimson that tries to consume my entire body, never knowing it was possible to blush from head to toe. My gut tells me I’ve no idea what I’m agreeing to, but I have no other choice. Flipping burgers back home and babysitting for local neighborhood families isn’t going to fill my bank account with the kind of money I need to secure my future and ensure I don’t end up married off to Cortland or any other polygamous asshole.

  I need a real job, and this man is offering me one.

  “When can you start?”

  “Just like that, you’re hiring me?” I try to hide the excitement in my tone, but my words are rushed, and my lips are twisted into a smile. “You don’t want to interview me first? Check my references?”

  “I don’t need to check your references. The fact that Randy Mutchler wanted you tells me all I need to know.” He leans back, cocking his elbow against the bar. Our bodies are perfectly aligned though I’m not sure about our intentions. “He’s a very particular man. I’m sure he’s run you through a battery of tests.”

  Now would be a great time to tell him I’m a dirty, rotten liar.

  “Can I think about it?” If I jump all over this chance, the way I want to, he’ll call my bluff, and this’ll all be over.

  “What’s there to think about?” His dark brow rises while the other one slants.

  “Salary. Benefits.”

  Dane smirks. “Randy’s a cheap bastard. I can assure you anything
he’s offered you will be paltry compared to my compensation package.”

  My heart races and then pounds hard until I hear it whooshing in my ears.

  “How much was he offering you?” His brows meet.

  “Fifteen,” I say, meaning fifteen dollars per hour.

  “I’ll give you twenty.” He doesn’t hesitate. “Twenty grand per month to start. It’s not negotiable.”

  My entire being tenses as I try to play it cool. I’m screaming on the inside, jumping, flipping, and cartwheeling from here to the Catalina Islands.

  “Twenty is fine.”

  “You’ll start Monday.” There’s finality in his voice as if he’s signaling that this discussion is over, and it’s over because he says it is. His grey-blue eyes flicker and settle before he rises from his bar stool.

  “And what is it I’ll be doing for you exactly?”

  “Everything you were going to be doing for Randy.” He reaches into his left breast pocket and pulls out his card, our fingers grazing as we exchange the thick cardstock embossed with his company’s logo. His other hand works his wallet from his suit jacket. He turns for a moment to pull out a crisp, one-hundred dollar bill and presses it into the bar top. “Your champagne is on me. I’ll see you next week.”

  TWO

  BELLAMY

  “I got the job.” I drop my bag on the kitchen island where two of my three mothers are chopping fruit for what looks like a bowl of ambrosia. My current state of excitement completely overrides the fact that I have no idea what I’ve gotten myself into. “Just like I said I would.”

  Summer, my father’s second wife, glances up at me before shooting a look at my mother, Jane. She says nothing but her look says it all. They disapprove of me wanting to work outside the house. The only reason my father agreed was because I suggested I could work for a few months to save up money for my future wedding, which he believes will be happening soon now that I’m courting Cortland. Ultimately, my mothers’ ideas of a woman’s role involve birthing babies and cleaning house while remaining faithful and loyal to their dominant husbands.