The Unwanted Assistant

by Evangeline Kelly

  He sniffed. “What’s that smell?”

  Was he serious? I held up the orange but didn’t glance his way.

  “It’s not the orange I smell.” He stood and took slow, deliberate steps in my direction, his boots thudding with each movement.

  Every step made my heart pound faster until he finally stood at my side. I stiffened at his closeness but kept my focus on my task. When he didn’t move away, I lifted my head to meet his eyes. “Is there something else you need?”

  He moved even closer and leaned forward, sniffing my hair. My stomach twisted with nervous butterflies and my head felt fuzzy. I shouldn’t like that he invaded my personal space—but I kind of did.

  He cleared his throat. “Your hair smells like strawberries.”

  “Got to love organic shampoo.” I stepped back and laughed awkwardly. “I made it myself because it’s cheaper than buying brand name hair products.” My voice faltered. “If it bothers you, I don’t have to use it on work days.”

  A smile flashed across his face, and I melted a little. He was so handsome when he did that. He held the scarred side away from me, and I wanted to say something about it—tell him that was unnecessary—but since we barely knew each other I didn’t know if he’d be offended.

  “Who said I didn’t like it?” he asked.

  “I just thought since you seem bothered . . .”

  He walked back to the other side of the room and opened the curtains on the other window, allowing more light to pour in. “It doesn’t bother me. It’s nice . . .”

  Was that a compliment?

  And then he finished the sentence. “If you don’t mind smelling like strawberry shortcake. Most people don’t want to smell like their food, but if that’s your thing, I won’t argue with you.”

  Not a compliment. “I’ll abstain from using it on work days.” I wanted to add that with the salary he agreed to pay, I could easily buy something nicer. But smart-alecky comments were best kept inside my head.

  “No, please,” he said, moving away from the window and lowering himself into the chair at his desk. “Don’t change a thing for me. Who am I to tell you what scent you should wear?” He took out his tennis ball and threw it against the wall, watching as it ricocheted back into his hand. He did this over and over again, the motion almost hypnotic.

  He stopped for a second and waited for my reaction, eyes searching my face as if wanting to get inside my head to find out what made me tick.

  I knew what he was doing. He wanted to make me uncomfortable.

  And it was working.

  The muscles of his forearms flexed as he continued throwing the ball against the wall.

  After peeling the orange, I walked over to his desk. I resisted the urge to “make nice,” as I normally would, and decided to say what was on my mind instead. Mom’s advice to “use my words” kept bouncing through my head.

  “Then I’ll continue smelling like strawberry shortcake. I happen to love food in case you hadn’t noticed. Smelling like cake is a dream.”

  His eyes sparked with amusement when I gave the orange back. He turned it around in his hands, observing every inch. “Not bad. You managed to pull off your first task.” He broke off a section and handed it to me. “For your hard work.” He emphasized “work” as if mocking me, since we both knew my task had been a joke.

  “No, thank you.” I stepped back, hands in my back pockets, and ignored his outstretched hand. If I took the orange I’d be a willing participant in this game of his. “This has been fun, but surely you have something more important for me to do? Perhaps I can organize a file or run an errand for you.”

  He picked up a pen off his desk and twirled it around his fingers, then bit down hard on the tip, pretending to appear thoughtful. He shook his head. “Nope. Don’t have any files I trust you with right now, and I don’t have any errands for you either.” He tapped the laptop sitting on the desk. “Whatever I need can be overnighted or delivered within hours.”

  “Groceries then?” I asked.

  “Florence takes care of that.”

  “Wait, you have another assistant?”

  “She’s my chef.”

  Of course he had a chef. I took a breath, fighting back impatience at his cavalier attitude. “So, you really don’t have anything for me to do?”

  “Nope.” He sounded way too pleased with himself.

  “Should I go home then?”

  He shrugged. “Stay, go—I don’t care.”

  My stomach soured like a week-old cheesecake left on the countertop to rot. “I was led to believe you had work for me to do. If you don’t, please tell me so I can start searching for another job.”

  “Don’t need your help, don’t want it really. You’re welcome to take a seat on the couch over there—away from me. I assure you, you’ll still get a paycheck.”

  Okay, that was just weird. Why would he pay me to do nothing?

  I’d already gotten the sense he didn’t want me here, but I needed a task to focus my energy and attention. Without something to do, I’d have to resort to killing time. And that led me to my next question. “Why did you hire me in the first place?”

  His stony expression didn’t waver. “I can’t afford to lose Hayden. He told me I had to hire you or he’d quit.”

  My mouth fell open. I hadn’t seen that coming.

  He chuckled at the shock he must have seen on my face. “Don’t worry, he didn’t say I had to hire you specifically, but he did say I had to hire an assistant.”

  Hayden Jeffries. He’d seemed tired and worn-down during my interview. So it was him who insisted Sawyer hire someone. That shouldn’t come as a complete surprise, considering Sawyer’s resistance to me. But what would inspire Mr. Jeffries to insist Sawyer hire an assistant or he’d quit? Especially when there wasn’t much work to be done. Something didn’t fit.

  Sawyer threw that stupid tennis ball back against the wall. It was so aggravating I wanted to catch it and throw it in the trash. He glanced away for a moment, refusing to make eye contact. “It seems I’m going to have to put up with you until he sees reason and I can fire you.”

  I laughed at the absurdity of the situation. If someone had told me a year ago, I’d be standing in a southern-style mansion in the good ol’ state of Alabama, getting paid for doing nothing while putting up with a snarky man, wearing combat boots of all things, I’d have said that person was crazy. Yet here I stood.

  “You find this funny?” There was a bite to his tone. “Trust me. You don’t want to hang around longer than you have to. I’ll be doing you a favor by letting you go.” He fiddled with a shoe string on one of his boots and then sat up straight.

  “Can you at least give me a heads-up as to when this will take place?” I asked.

  “Hayden said we would reassess in two months.”

  “Two months from today?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Might as well make it exactly two months from today.”

  I did a quick mental calculation. Lovely. That landed smack on my birthday. How ironic . . . and unfortunate.

  I would have two months in his employment with little to do until I got fired. Happy Birthday to me. What a wonderful situation I’d found for myself. Mr. Jeffries’ “easy work” comment came to mind—but nothing about this was easy, even if I didn’t have much to do.

  It would take a great deal of effort being around a man who obviously couldn’t stand me. Maybe I should save him the trouble and quit right now. He continued throwing that ludicrous ball against the wall, this time with a smug look on his face.

  And then it came to me. He was waiting for me to quit. Wanted me to quit, even. Hayden must have told him he couldn’t fire me until the two-month period was over, and he hoped I’d do him a favor and resign on my own.

  Well, I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  I changed tactics. “You know, this isn’t such a bad deal. I mean, who doesn’t like the idea of getting paid to sit around?” I moseyed over to the couch a
nd sprawled out, making myself at home. “I think I’ll take a little nap.” I peeked at him with a smirk. “If you don’t wake me up, will you pay overtime if I stay past the agreed upon hours?”

  He watched me for a long moment, and I could have sworn I saw a glimmer of respect in his eyes.

  Slouching back in his chair, he threw the ball against the wall some more. I saw the wheels turning—he was devising something. “I do have a task for you after all. Florence is out sick, so why don’t you make lunch?”

  I cringed. Poor, Sawyer. He didn’t know I wasn’t good in the kitchen.

  At all.

  He was in for it if he thought lunch prepared by my hands was a fun idea. In fact, I barely ever cooked anything. Unless pre-packaged microwave dinners counted. And I was pretty sure it didn’t.

  But I had asked for a task and he’d given me one. I could hardly turn it down. With great hesitation, I said in a measured voice, “Um, I can try, but I don’t think you’d appreciate my cooking after having a chef prepare gourmet meals on a regular basis. You’re better off ordering in.”

  He grinned, looking suddenly very intrigued. “I can’t wait to see what you come up with, Shortcake.”

  I was in big, big trouble.

  Chapter 9

  Ivy

  An hour later I stared at the mess in the kitchen. It was bad. Really bad.

  Chances were, I’d get fired once Sawyer saw the sorry excuse for chicken and broccoli I’d made. And even if he couldn’t fire me, per Mr. Jeffries, he’d never ask me to cook again. Which was fine with me, by the way.

  I’d been racing around the kitchen searching for supplies like Gordon Ramsay was on my tail. A trickle of sweat dripped down my back, and I was about ready to ditch what I had and start over when Sawyer sauntered in. “Smells like something’s on fire. Are you trying to burn my house down, Shortcake?”

  My eyes narrowed. Enough with the nickname. I had a feeling I’d never live that down. I held a nearly empty salt shaker behind my back and stood in front of the pan so he wouldn’t see the utter disaster I’d created.

  “Step aside,” he said. “Let me see what’s going on here.”

  It was pointless to resist, so I moved out of the way, bracing myself for snide comments which were sure to follow. When he saw the nearly burnt meal sizzling in the pan, his lips twitched like he wanted to laugh.

  “Did you mix everything in at once or did you cook the broccoli separately?”

  I cocked my head to the side. “I put everything in together. Why?”

  “Because it takes longer for the chicken to cook. When you toss everything in at once, you risk the chicken being undercooked, or the broccoli overcooked.”

  It figured he’d know more about cooking than I did.

  He looked speculative. “I should taste it before we dish this up.”

  “No, absolutely not. I was just about to throw it out and start over.”

  He ignored me and sauntered over to a drawer and pulled out a fork. When he returned, I started to tell him to stop, but he pushed past me and scooped out a large bite. I put a hand over my mouth as I watched him chew, knowing things were about to get interesting.

  After a few seconds, his eyes bulged for one heart-stopping second, and I thought he might vomit. He grabbed a towel and turned his head, spitting out the food. Not a surprise. I’d spit it out, too. When he faced me again, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “How much salt did you put in there?”

  “Um . . . there was a little issue with the salt. The top of the salt-shaker fell off while I was stirring the chicken and a bunch dropped in.”

  For a moment, he just stared at me like he was trying to figure out if I was serious. And then he began to laugh. Not just a chuckle, but a deep belly-aching laugh. He held his stomach and threw back his head. I snickered along with him because if I didn’t, I was going to cry out of frustration.

  He laughed so hard tears streamed down his face. “That was the worst chicken I’ve ever tasted. When I asked you to prepare something, I had no idea you planned on making this.” He gestured to the catastrophe on the stove.

  Heat burned my cheeks, and I glanced away, ashamed. I should never have agreed to prepare lunch. Should have known better. But I couldn’t back down from his challenge.

  His eyes softened. “It’s okay, Ivy. No harm done.”

  I tried to smile, but it came out more like a grimace. “Perhaps you should order out.”

  “Naw. I’ve got this.” He walked around the kitchen and gathered more supplies. He stirred together milk and flour and oil, a few eggs, and some other ingredients. It wasn’t until he spooned the batter onto a flat griddle pan that I realized he was making pancakes. He sprinkled the tops with a cinnamon-sugar mixture.

  “Smells good,” I said, my stomach rumbling.

  “I could eat these any time of day,” he said.

  I bit down on my bottom lip. “I’m really sorry—”

  “It’s not a big deal. I’m doing this because I want to. There are plenty of prepared meals in the refrigerator. Florence only comes twice a week, and she makes enough to last a few days.”

  “So, you asked me to cook because . . .?”

  “I wanted to see what you’d come up with.”

  “Well, now you know.”

  He chuckled. “Yes, I certainly do.”

  When the pancakes were done, he served them on two different plates and set them down on the kitchen island. He left for a few minutes and returned with syrup and butter.

  We sat on barstools and ate in silence for a while, and then I glanced at him sidelong. “Thanks for not making a big deal out of this. I should have told you I’m a terrible cook.”

  He smiled and shrugged. “It’s all right. I haven’t laughed that hard in a long time.” The smile slowly dropped from his lips as he appeared to contemplate his own words.

  How long had it been since he’d laughed like that?

  He turned back to his food. “This is the only thing I know how to make.”

  “Really? Because you analyzed my chicken and broccoli like you knew what you were talking about.”

  “I watch the food network sometimes. Tell anyone and I’ll deny it.”

  I continued to eat, absentmindedly fingering the locket at my neck.

  He glanced at me. “Is your necklace important? I noticed it at the interview and you’re wearing it again today.”

  I looked down and realized I’d almost forgotten it was there. Austin had given it to me on my birthday, and it held a picture of him inside. After the break-up, I hadn’t been able to take it off, not when it was the only thing I had left of him. Now it seemed pathetic I still wore it when he’d already moved on.

  My face heated. “No, it’s not that important. Just a piece of jewelry. I mean . . . it’s not important to me.” I slid the locket inside my blouse so it was no longer visible.

  A curious expression crossed his features. “The lady doth protest too much.”

  I didn’t know what to say, and, thankfully, he didn’t press the issue. Minutes went by and we continued to eat without conversation. I finally broke the silence. “These pancakes are really good, Sawyer. Who taught you to make them? Was it Florence or the Food Network?”

  “Neither.” His voice was quiet, almost inaudible.

  I glanced at him and noticed his posture had fallen.

  “Is everything okay?”

  He slid off the barstool and threw the remainder of his pancakes in the trash, then put his dish in the sink with a clank. “I’m not really hungry anymore.” He glanced at me and for a second, I could have sworn I’d seen pain flicker through his eyes, but it was quickly replaced with a wall of indifference. “It’s been fun. But I’m ready for some quiet time.”

  He walked out of the kitchen, leaving me alone to finish my meal.

  Maybe his parents taught him to make pancakes, and I’d just reminded him of the loss.

  Great work, Ivy. This day just keeps getting bet
ter.

  That night I told Sammie about my cooking debacle. When I disclosed the problem with the salt lid falling off, she laughed so hard she had to run to the restroom for fear she’d wet her pants.

  “I’m glad my life’s entertaining to you,” I yelled through the bathroom door.

  “Maybe you should take a few cooking classes,” she yelled back.

  “Not a bad idea.”

  The door to the bathroom swung open, and she wore a playful grin. “So, is he hot?”

  My head jerked back in surprise. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because I’ve never seen you so ruffled over a guy before. You light up every time you talk about him.”

  I glared at her. She knew I hated using the word “hot” to describe anyone because it somehow felt demeaning. “He’s not my type. Any man who wears combat boots will never be my type. I prefer the clean-cut look.”

  “You didn’t answer my question so let me rephrase. Is he good-looking?”

  I hated to admit it, but after careful scrutiny, I’d come to the conclusion that Sawyer was painfully handsome. Some might think differently because of the scars, but he had a certain charisma that made him attractive. I shrugged and headed down the hall, trying to appear nonchalant. “He’s okay.”

  “A-huh.”

  I glanced at her over my shoulder, and she grinned knowingly. She always managed to figure out what I was thinking.

  Once in my room, I sunk down into my bed and sighed. Sawyer had been surprisingly cool about the lunch debacle. But then again, it seemed like he couldn’t get away from me fast enough at the end.

  He was still going to fire me in two months.

  And good-looking or not, I would still dread going to work.

  ***

  Later that evening, Sammie asked me to sit next to her on the couch while she took out her phone. “I’ve got some pictures I want to show you of yesterday’s get-together.”

  The day before, she’d been to a meet-and-greet at one of the Christian Campus Organizations. I had planned on going with her but bowed out at the last second because of reading I needed to complete for a class. She flicked her strawberry blond ponytail over a shoulder and flipped through photographs on her phone. “Look at this guy. He’s cute, isn’t he?”