“I got the directions all written down,” Dad said, limping into the room. “You’re gonna catch the E train to Sutphin—for Chrissakes, Noah. Don’t wear that.”
I glanced at his reflection in the full-length mirror. Despite being in his fifties, my father had always looked about a decade younger than he was with his full head of thick, dark hair, but the recent stress had aged him. There were lines on his forehead that hadn’t been there before, and it seemed like his knee problems returned the more inactive he became. Even my mother was concerned about him, and they’d been divorced for years.
“What’s wrong with it?” I asked, pulling on my blazer. “It’s business casual.”
Dad made a face. “You look like an asshole. You’re working from the guy’s house, not going to a desk job at Business Insider.”
“I want to make a good impression for the first time since I’ve encountered his ridiculous face. Show him I’m taking it seriously.”
“C’mon, kiddo. It’s Gavin Brawley.” Everyone kept saying that as if it meant absolutely anything to me. “Guys like Brawley don’t care about button-downs and slacks.”
“These are Dickies, dad. I have one pair of slacks, and I save it for interviews and funerals.”
Dad frowned deeply at that, but all he said was, “Change your clothes.” At my firm headshake, he heaved a big sigh and held up a piece of lined paper. “I wrote down the directions for you. Once you get to the railroad, you’re gonna catch two different trains to get to Westhampton. Once there, you’re gonna have to find a taxi.”
Cringing, I grabbed the paper and shoved it in my pocket. “I could have looked it up myself, but thanks, Dad.”
“You’re welcome.” He patted my shoulder. “Thanks for letting an old man feel useful.”
The words tightened my chest, and I pulled him into a hug. The morning was starting off on a seriously depressing note.
I left the house bummed out and wishing I could do something to help my father. My preoccupation helped to distract me from wondering what awaited me on my first day at the Brawley mansion, but it didn’t distract from the disaster of my new commute. I got to the Long Island Railroad without any delays but, once there, I realized my father had left out some key details in his trip planning.
The train heading to Babylon didn’t start running until eight o’clock, which meant I was going to be an hour and a half late on my first day.
“Fuck.”
I dialed Gavin, got no answer, and sent him a text. In the time I spent sitting on a bench and sweating through my shirt, he didn’t respond. Even to mock me. Either he’d already written me off or he was dead. Those were the only two reasons why he wouldn’t be ripping my head off right now.
Pacing the station didn’t make time go by quicker, and neither did buying an unsatisfying breakfast of a lukewarm buttered roll from the bodega on the corner. By the time I was slumped on the train, I was a similar breed of hot sweaty mess that I’d been on the day of my first interview with him.
Things wouldn’t end well.
Obsessively checking my phone didn’t cause a response to appear in my messages. And he still wasn’t picking up his phone. What the hell? He could at least ream me for being late and being irresponsible instead of totally icing me out. That was when it hit me—he was probably waiting for me to show up in a rushed panic so he could fire me in person.
I became convinced of this on the cab ride to his estate, and was boiling with pent-up frustration and anger as I rang the doorbell. It took nearly ten minutes for him to answer.
Gavin appeared in the massive doorway sweaty and wearing nothing but Under Armour compression shorts. I was treated to every line of his body, every muscle, every mark and scar, and a bulge that magnetized my eyeballs. It wasn’t fair for him to look this good and to have a dick that big. Life was ridiculous.
Setting my jaw, I lifted my chin and stared into his angry golden gaze.
“I’m sorry I’m late. The trains don’t run until after eight o’clock.”
Gavin leaned against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest. “Yeah, okay, so why didn’t you check the schedule?”
“My—” I could not tell him my father had done it for me. If there was one thing I couldn’t handle, it was someone being disparaging about my dad today. Especially not when he’d been so happy to help. “I just looked up the route. I’d assumed the trains run regularly during rush hour. It’s my fault and I understand if—”
Gavin turned and walked into the house without a word.
Was he done talking to me and wanted me to fuck off for eternity, or was he done hearing my excuses? I couldn’t tell whether either meant I still had a job, but he’d left the door open. Living on the edge of optimism, I hurried in after him and shut it.
I bypassed beautiful empty room after beautiful empty room until I was trailing to the state-of-the-art kitchen. It was the kind of kitchen that made me want to cook a full meal and entertain guests, which was amazing since I hated dinner parties, and the only person I liked cooking for was my father.
“It won’t happen again. I swear. I tried to call—”
“I was working out and had the music up,” he said shortly. “My phone isn’t my priority. I actually hate it.”
“You were working out at six in the morning?”
“How do you think I maintain the body you were just checking out?”
Heat rose to my face. “I was not checking you out. Get over yourself.”
Gavin ripped open the refrigerator and removed a bottle of Kefir. I half expected him to guzzle it down, which was gross, but he poured it into an open blender. There were already a bunch of other ingredients inside the fancy-looking appliance. It probably cost a full month’s rent of my apartment. Or one month of my student loan payments. This was the reason why people stole things.
“I was just shocked that you’d open the door like that,” I babbled. “I’m pretty sure those shorts are meant to be worn under . . . other shorts.”
“Why would I care about being modest in my own house?”
“Well, because I’ll be here with you.”
Gavin cocked a brow. “If you think I’m going to try to spare your delicate baby eyes, I suggest you readjust your expectations. FYI—after showering, I air dry.” That said, he slapped the top onto the blender and turned it on. It sounded like a fucking airplane taking off.
Whirring filled the kitchen as we stared at each other over the counter. It was like a Wild West stare down, except in Westhampton, and he was armed with a protein shake and way nicer guns than John Wayne’s six-shooters.
Oh God, I needed to stop.
Clearing my throat, I moved closer to him to be heard over the noise. “Listen, I’m sorry I messed up. I don’t know how I’m going to deal with the schedule but I’ll figure something out. I swear.”
Gavin stopped blending his foul-looking concoction. “This is why it’s a live-in position. Did you think I was just dying to play house with some pain-in-the-ass personal assistant?”
“No. I assumed rich people just like having staff at their beck and call.”