But it’s whatever. I don’t dwell on them because, like I said, they won’t be there, so getting annoyed over fictitious interactions is pointless. It’s part of the job and something I need to get over.
Finishing with his bedroom is a mistake I’ve yet to learn how not to repeat. I dread it, and I’m too tired to find the motivation. Of course, I still get it done, but not without internally cursing at myself.
The penthouse is usually a mess, but nothing is worse than his bedroom and bathroom. There are clothes and socks—dirty, if I had to guess—scattered everywhere, shoes disposed in random areas, hair on the sink from shaving, empty energy cans and protein bottles littered on most available surfaces. It’s hell.
He has more than enough space to organize his crap, but I guess he thinks the floor is perfect for it all. Don’t get me started on his massive walk-in closet, the mess inside it, or the dirt his shoes pick up when he’s out and how the area rug is dreadfully stained. Naturally, by the time I leave, the rug is spotless because that’s what I get paid to do.
I blast the Christmas music from my headphones to drown out my agitated thoughts while I finish with his room. The last place I check before wrapping up is underneath his bed. I crouch down and am shocked to only find an empty water bottle.
I grab it and stand but jolt back in horror, almost tripping over my own feet. A sharp, small gasp scrapes past the back of my throat, but the rest of the air gets caught in my lungs, squeezing my chest. I fist my collared shirt, where my heart hammers frantically, and tug it away from me.
Removing an earbud, I stare wide-eyed at Sylas as he stands just a few feet away from me. “What the?—”
“Shit, I’m sorry.” He places a cautious hand out, as if he were trying to say he means no harm. “I swear I was trying to get your attention. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Then why were you hovering like a creep?” I step back, not because I’m scared of him but because I’m still trying to catch my breath. And something about being so close to him makes it hard to breathe. He’s tall and broad—overwhelming.
He drops his hand, adding space between us. “You didn’t hear me trying to catch your attention.”
I’m finally able to pull myself together, but I can’t stop myself from scowling. “So, it’s my fault?”
“Yeah, you getting easily scared is your fault, but I’m sorry again for scaring you.” It sounds like he’s taunting me, with his wry smile and arched brow.
I’m ready to whip out an insult, but his parents pay my boss, who pays me. If Sylas reports me for talking to him a certainway, Michael will definitely not hesitate to fire me. Sylas’s parents are two of his longest-standing and wealthiest clients.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t anticipate you’d be here. I’m almost done.”
Now I second-guess myself, worried I took longer than usual. On top of making sure everything looks brand-new, we have to get everything cleaned by a certain time.
“Don’t be sorry. We got out of practice early and…” Sylas’s voice wavers, eyes slowly perusing me. “Anna. You’re the waitress from yesterday.”
I can’t stop the scoff from escaping my mouth fast enough and rush to soften my expression, hoping I come off friendly and professional. “Yeah, that’s me.”
His dark brown eyebrows furrow. “Did I do something to you? I’m sorry about yesterday. I was just messing around.”
I don’t mean to squeeze the bottle as hard as I do, causing it to crinkle and slice through the silence I let prolong. I could answer, but there are consequences, and like I told him yesterday: he’s not worth losing my job over.
“No worries. I gotta get back to?—”
“Quit the bullshit. I hate it.” He cuts me off bluntly, the slight British accent more prominent at his impatience. “Just tell me what it is. It’s obvious I did something to have you looking at me like you’re close to castrating me.”
“Will I get fired?” I stop twisting the bottle, pausing the Christmas music on my phone.
His lips curl up slightly at the corners, and amusement flares in his eyes. “I promise that won’t happen.”
I stare at him, deadpan, but that doesn’t deter the playful expression on his face. It only annoys me, but frustratingly, it lessens the ball of resentment I’ve had toward him since freshman year.
“We had a communications class together, freshman year, fall semester. We were paired together, and you didn’t show up for our final exam.” My jaw flexes, and my fingers dig into the plastic, making it crunch loudly. “Not only did you not show up, but you didn’t give me a reason or reply to me.”
His brows scrunch in, his demeanor serious but thoughtful like he’s trying to think back to that moment. I’m not surprised he doesn’t remember it or me. But then his eyebrows rise and I see it dawn on him.
“Fuck.” He drags his fingers through his thick, chestnut-brown locks. “I’m sorry, I had…that day…I dislocated my shoulder on the ice the night before and…how did you do?”
He looks genuinely contrite, and it’s kind of irritating because of the memories of that day. I begged the last group to switch with me while I waited for Sylas to arrive and, thankfully, they agreed. I emailed him nonstop, asking if he was going to show up, but he never replied. He didn’t even apologize.
“How do you think I did?” I snap. “I failed. It was our final exam and worth a big chunk of our overall grade. I don’t give two shits that you don’t remember me. I’mpissedbecause some of us don’t have the luxury of paying our way through school. Yes, I know about youpassingthe exam you never took whileIfailed. So fuck you for that. It messed with my GPA.” My face flames, and my fingers are back to choking the neck of the bottle. I can’t believe I almost felt bad for him.
I walk around him but backtrack, tipping my head to look up at him because he’s so damn tall. I’m mad and I’m going to get this off my chest while I have the chance. “And for the love of God, use your hamper, throw your trash or recyclables where they belong, and stop smoking, it isn’t good for your health. You’re a goddamn athlete. And fuck you again because, well, fuck you.”
