“I won’t schedule night shifts without at least forty-eight hours notice. You will also be allotted personal time off that you can use for school holidays as well as any appointments you need to tend to.”
“Oh,” the word comes out small. I don’t know what to say or think.
Damien takes another step closer, and his tone stays low. “Also, if you would be more comfortable changing into your provided work attire after arriving each day, that is acceptable too.”
In other words, he doesn’t expect me to go through the school drop-off line in form fitting dresses with slits up to my thighs.
“It probably gives the wrong impression anyway,” he adds.
The tiniest of smiles tugs at my lips. “Maybe a little,” I say with a shrug.
We stare at each other for a moment, and while it’s a silent moment, the air between us is thick with whatever chemistry we seem to have created in the last month. Then, he clicks his tongue. “I want you to unpack. Finish your coffee. After that, godown to the spa. I’ll let Heather know you are coming for a 90-minute hot stone massage.”
“Damien…”
“And then change into something that makes you feel beautiful because you and I are going to lunch.”
I don’t know what to say. I can hardly move. Damien walks out before I respond, and moments later, I take a breath. I press my hand to my pounding chest. I have no idea what is going on. But I also know better than to question it.
If you had told me even two months ago that I would be eating caviar at Ginger and Gin, I would have laughed at you. And if you’d told me I would actually enjoy caviar, I would have told you to fuck off. Yet, here I am.
Damien’s exact words to me were,wear something that makes you feel beautifulso I do just that. I’m in a pale-yellow maxi dress with a frost twist and a keyhole. It’s both classy and summery, and I love the color, especially when I have a tan. And thanks to my recent pool time, I do.
“So what do you think?” he asks as I scoop another cracker through the caviar and crème fraîche with lemon and green onions.
“If I’m being honest, I’m seriously surprised that I like it. I never thought I would,” I answer as I pat my mouth with a cloth napkin. Everything about this place is beyond anything I’ve ever experienced. It’s the most lavish lunch I’ve ever had.
Damien smiles. A true smile. Then he reaches across the table and takes my hand in his. “You deserve to experience all of these things, and you’re going to.”
I laugh a little. I can’t help it. The whole thing…it’s just wild.
“What’s so funny?” he asks, still smiling, still holding my hand. “You don’t believe me?”
“I’m sorry, but just a few hours ago I thought you were going to fire me.”
“I told you I wasn’t,” he says. “If anything, all of this is to show you that I don’t want you to quit. I don’t care if you have kids or a past or any of that. At the end of the day, Ellie, you’re a killer personal assistant, and I’d be a fool to terminate you over something like that.”
I’m quiet for a moment while I digest those words. This back and forth, push and pull. Ever since my breakup with Dylan, I have vowed never to let another man treat me like a puppet. And I’ve kept that promise…until now. And yet, when it’s Damien pulling those strings, guiding those movements, it’s different. I’m not in control, and I’m unsure whether I can trust it. But I don’t want him to stop.
The waitress set down our food, seared ahi for him and a pistachio-crusted chicken for me. We both take a bite or two before continuing the conversation. It’s also a bit wild how silence isn’t awkward with him.
I take my wineglass from the table, and our eyes meet. “I’m grateful that you’ve finally read my resume,” I say with a small laugh. “And I’m glad that me being a single mom isn’t going to be a problem.”
“Like I said, it changes nothing,” he says and takes another bite of his ahi. “I’ll make sure your job works around your home life. The last thing a boy needs is an absent mother.”
His words have a tinge of something under them, but I can tell it’s something I shouldn’t press. Instead, I ask, “Does it also not change anything that you and I…that we…”
“The masquerade,” he says, a word that I can’t bring myself to. Maybe because if I do, that means both of us are admitting that it happened. It was real. “About that night, Ellie…”
“Why are you calling me that?” I cut him off. “I thought you hated nicknames.”
“I do,” he admits, swirling his wine glass. “But it’s what you prefer to be called, and I don’t hate the way it sounds when I say it.”
It earns a small smile from me. “About that night then?”
“The red dress. The black mask with the sequins and the feathers. The pink cocktail with the slice of pear. I knew when you were drinking that, the way you bit into the pear slice, that I remembered you from somewhere,” he pauses, his eyes distant. If I had to guess, that distance is six years. Then, “I can’t stop… I mean…I think of that masked woman often.”
“Oh? Like the way she was a hot mess and spilled her drink on her dress?” I ask.
