Elizabeth O'Roark

He’s right and at the moment I don’t fucking care. He’s got everything else—free to do what he wants, no responsibility for the farm. He doesn’t get Olivia too.

sink into the pillow again. Who the hell sleeps this hard in a complete stranger’s home?

Tali. When the right guy comes along, your walls will recede.”

I sort of doubt that, given my plan is just to avoid men altogether.

But either way, Hayes Flynn won’t be touching my walls, or anything else.

Before I can correct it, he appears, dressed in a crisp white shirt and black suit, even taller than I’d realized—and even prettier. Dark hair gleaming, damp and pushed off his face, a slight flush to his sharp cheekbones, still warm from the shower.

It’s a face that would force you to look a second and then a third time. A face that makes you brace for the sound of his voice...undoubtedly low and rough as gravel, the kind of voice that plucks a chord at the base of your stomach, makes you squeeze your thighs together in anticipation. Or would, were he not looking at me as if I’d just broken into his home.

“Is this a joke?” he demands. His voice is exactly as I imagined. Too bad he had to ruin it by being him. He must have known I was coming, and I haven’t done anything wrong yet.

“No,” I say, suddenly grateful the counter separates us. “I’m Tali. Jonathan asked me to fill in for him while he was gone. I assumed you knew.”

A muscle flickers in his jaw. “He told me my replacement was named Natalia,” he says, blowing out a tight breath. “Not his friend, the bartender.”

He says “bartender” as if it’s synonymous with racist or pedophile. I’d think a guy who drinks as much as he does would have a great deal of respect for my profession.

“Is there a problem?” I ask. My voice is probably more threatening and less conciliatory than is called for—no bad situation I can’t make worse. But I quit my job for this, so I’m not going down without a fight.

“I need to speak to Jonathan when he lands,” he says, pressing the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “There’s obviously been a misunderstanding. I mean, do you even have any experience?”

Do I have experience answering the phone and picking up dry cleaning? Yes. Loads. I truly can’t believe Jonathan worried I’d sleep with this guy. Granted, I’d like to do plenty of things to him, but they mostly involve spit, and not in a sexy way.

“Yes,” I reply, folding my arms beneath my chest. “Last I checked, answering phones didn’t require an MBA from Harvard.”

“Which you clearly don’t have,” he says.

I could counter that I’ve attended grad school, but referencing something I quit probably won’t help my case.

He grabs the coffee, sighing as he glances at the sugars. Apparently, he is too busy and important to tear his own sugar packets. Lesson learned for tomorrow, not that it appears there will be a tomorrow.

“I’m calling Jonathan,” he says, already walking away. “Don’t get comfortable.”

The door slams and my breath leaves me, slowly and thoroughly. What the hell even happened? I’d understand if he disliked me after getting to know me—he wouldn’t be the first—but he was being a jerk before I even opened my mouth.

I lean against the marble counter and press my face to my hands, the disappointment sinking in at last. I’ve already quit at Topside and on very little notice. They won’t be hiring me back, which means unless I find something else quickly, I’m heading home to Kansas with my tail between my legs, just the way my ex-boyfriend predicted I would.

What’s hardest is that this job felt like a sign—that things would be fine, that I was going to be able to dig my way out of this hole I’m in. But every bit of luck I ever had evaporated the minute I accepted that advance. Why would this be different?

* * *

Eventually I make my way to Jonathan’s office, just to the right of the kitchen. It’s small and sunny and Zen-like in its austerity. Aside from the desk and chair, the only décor is a single bright green fern and two framed photos—one of Jason and one of the three of us, laughing in the breeze with the Santa Monica pier lit up behind us.

I sip my cold coffee and begin to take down the weekend’s messages, waiting to be fired. I’ve almost, almost, accepted the idea, by the time he calls midday. But my stomach still drops. I’ve never been fired before

pertinent, personal or otherwise. But the only people who actually have Hayes’s number are his friend Ben, Jonathan, and now me…so he’ll know who’s to blame if it gets out.

“Make sure people leave you alone. Jonathan told me.”

“Exactly,” he replies. “Yourself included.” And then he hangs up without another word.

I heave a deep sigh and close my eyes. It’s going to be a really, really long six weeks.

“Are you...are you wearing my date’s dress?” he asks, horrified.

The silver lining to having nothing left to lose is that...I have nothing left to lose.

“Do you like it?” I whisper, raising nervous, hopeful eyes to him. “I disposed of her, just like you asked.”

He’s frozen. There’s confusion in his gaze, and the tiniest seed of dawning terror.

I need you to meet me in Malibu,” Hayes says exactly fifteen minutes later.

It’s a plot turn I should have absolutely predicted, given the way my year has gone

“Umm…okay?” I look down at the red dress, which barely meets my thighs.

“Is there a problem?” he asks. We haven’t exchanged ten words and he’s already put out. “Or the better question might be is there any part of this job with which you won’t have a problem?’”

“No problem at all.” Unless you have an employee dress code. “I’m on my way.”

I gather the supplies he’s requested and get in my car, wondering as I weave through the city how the hell I’m going to explain why I’m wearing what amounts to a sexy nightgown.