I head toward the kitchen to grab a drink when my phone beeps in my pocket. Maybe it’s Wylie, and she’s changed her mind. Maybe she decided to go back to school rather than be my assistant. All would be right in the world.
Wouldn’t that be fucking great?
I take my phone out of my pocket and see that it’s a text from OC.
OC:So . . . are you going to share with the group how your meeting with the new assistant went?
And this is exactly why you don’t get involved in your friends’ lives because then they think they can treat you the same way. My buddies, they’re what I like to call incompetent nitwits when it comes to women. Granted, I’m still learning about OC, but from what I can tell about what’s going on between him and Grace, he’ll fall in the line of incompetency along with the rest.
My phone beeps with more texts.
Here we go . . .
Pacey:Wait, what assistant?
Eli:Coach Wood assigned his daughter to be Posey’s assistant.
Silas:Wait, you didn’t say she would be your assistant, just that she was looking for work.
Eli:Oh yeah, full-blown assistant. And let me tell you, she’s a piece of work.
Pacey:Why don’t I know anything?
Silas:Because you’re always with Winnie. You barely hang out with us now.
Eli:Says the guy who’s always with Ollie.
Halsey:As if you have any room to speak.
Levi:None of you have room to speak, you neglectful assholes. You’re all in happy, loving relationships because of me.
OC:Uh, I’m not happy.
Levi:Don’t worry, I’ll get to you.
Pacey:Back to Coach Wood. Why does he want you to hire his daughter?
Here’s the thing, I could tell my boys exactly what’s going on in my life, let them know that there’s been a girl I’ve been searching high and low for, that I’ve been desperate to find her because of one fucking kiss, and she just so happens to be our coach’s daughter. And now I have to act like an ass to her because her father wants to prove a point, and somehow I’ve been placed in the middle or . . .
I can tell them that it’s nothing and reveal nothing.
Telling them will lead to constant chatter, relentless text messages, because they’d absolutely LOVE to see me in distress over a woman, and I do not want to subject myself to the impending ridicule.
Therefore, I’m cutting them off.
Yup.
They don’t need to know all the details. It’s for the best. For my sanity.
Levi:She needed some experience, and Coach Wood knows I don’t have an assistant, so he asked if I’d hire her. I said it wasn’t a problem at all, so yeah, I have an assistant now. Please direct all your menial demands to her. Thanks.
Silas:Why is Hornsby saying she’s a piece of work?
Eli:Because she is. I’ve met her through Penny, and she’s just . . . on a different planet.
I didn’t gather that from my impression, but then again, Eli has a child, and maybe said child has sucked all the common sense from him. I’ve heard of that happening.
Maybe that’s why babies look like aliens when they’re fresh from the womb . . . mind suckers.
Pacey:Meaning . . . she’s going to give him a hard time? Because that would be amazing.
Levi:Why would that be amazing? Have I not been an absolute blessing to all of you?
OC:I have yet to witness the blessing personally so . . .
Levi:I said I would get to you. Patience, you fuck.
Halsey:I wouldn’t consider what you did to me a blessing. I could have figured out a way to be with Blakely without all the fanfare.
Eli:And Penny and I would have gotten together either way because Pacey made us live together.
Pacey:And I beg to see how you did anything to get me together with Winnie.
Silas:Not to mention, your texting nearly scared Ollie away.
Levi:Wow, I’ve never seen such a sad bunch of ungrateful motherfuckers in my life. If I have to recap . . . *clears throat* Pacey, you’re with Winnie because I didn’t make the first move. You’re welcome. Hornsby, if it weren’t for me, you’d still be texting Penny that you’re eating an apple. You’re welcome. Taters, don’t even get me fucking started. The reason you got tit pics from Ollie was because of me, and you know it. You’re welcome. Holmes, I stepped it up for you, lied, decorated your apartment, and practically placed Blakely on your ginormous dick. You are fucking welcome. Now, if you don’t mind, I have to train my new assistant. Go back to your happy lives.
OC:Uh . . . what do you want me to do?
Levi:Write me a synopsis of the history between you and Grace. Have it in my locker in a week. If you want happiness, don’t skip out on the details.
With that, I shove my phone in my pocket and pick up the email from Coach Wood that’s on my island counter. I look over the list a few more times, shaking my head at how stupid this all is. I’m an easy target for Coach Wood because he knows I’m a people pleaser. He knows I’ll do just about anything asked of me. Not to mention, he has me by the balls because sure, he helped me out with that one reporter, but that wasn’t the only night he’s helped me out. There have been many others when he’s pounded on my door just to get a clinger out of my hotel room. So yeah, he has me in a rough fucking spot.
I fold the paper in half just as there’s a knock on my door. In a panic, I slip the paper between the pages of one of my coffee table books—get rid of the evidence—and then move to the entryway.
Well, here we fucking go.
Keep it professional.
Don’t stare at her.
Don’t drool.
And keep it together unlike your nimrod friends who have no idea how to act around a woman.
Shoulders back, I open the door and feel my stomach immediately turn warm from the sight of Wylie.
Fuck me, she’s so hot.
The epitome of what I look for in a woman. Gorgeous face with those steely gray eyes, the lightest smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks, and she has bow-shaped lips that glisten under the lights of my entryway. Her dark red hair is silky smooth and long, enticing me to wrap it around my fist to see what kind of hold I can have on her. And her curvy and sensual body is out of this world.
Today, she’s wearing high-waisted wide-leg jeans, a black shirt tucked into the waist, and a blazer with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She’s professional but also casual at the same time. Her hair is down and straightened over her shoulders, and her eyes are highlighted by a thick coat of mascara.
What I wouldn’t give to grab her by the neck, pull her in close, and finish the night we shared.
“Hello, Mr. Posey,” Wylie says, knocking me out of my thoughts. “Is now still good?”
“Yeah,” I say, but don’t invite her in just yet. “But listen, you’ve got to cut it out with that Mr. Posey shit. It makes me feel ancient.”
“Well . . . aren’t you?” She smirks, and goddammit, it takes me back to that night when I was tasting those lips and looking for so much more.
“Ancient?” I shriek. “I’m not ancient. I don’t even have gray hair . . . or hair on my balls.” Her eyes widen, and I realize what I said. “I mean . . . not like in a prepubescent kind of way, like the testes haven’t dropped yet, because they have. They’ve dropped. I was just referring to my manscaping.” I pull on the back of my neck. “Have you heard of manscaping? Uh, well, I have nice balls because of how I take care of them and lotion them. Not that you needed to know that, but old men don’t usually manscape. They just let the hairs run wild, and that’s not the case here because I’m neither old nor ancient. So, to conclude, call me Levi, I have nice balls, and I manscape.”
Her smile is so bright as she says, “Don’t forget the lotioning.”
“Right.” I nod awkwardly. “The lotioning.”
She helps herself in and says, “And I meant in hockey years, you’re old.”
Ahh, yes, well, that makes more sense.
Trying to recover, I say, “Well, that just means I get to retire early on a mountain of cash.”
Ignoring my comment, she walks past me, and because I’m desperate and pathetic, I attempt to check out her ass, but her blazer covers it. That’s probably for the best. I shouldn’t be checking anything out.
She glances around my apartment, taking in the subtle decorations I purposely used to create a cohesive and well-put-together theme for my apartment. A theme I like to call electric thunder. I know what you’re thinking—how does one decorate with the theme electric thunder in mind?
Well, it’s a combination of dark, moody colors, pops of unsuspecting accent hues, and not too much texture where you think, whoa, my eyes are offended.
Unlike Halsey, who lived in a jail cell before Blakely came along, I have taste and a keen eye for interior design.
I have a personal Instagram account no one knows about, and I follow some of my favorite profiles, like Pottery Barn, Rejuvenation, and especially Joanna Gaines—I like her decorating style. Very neutral design style while she’s moved away from some of the farmhouse trends and taken a more modern aesthetic. I also follow a few baking accounts. One of my favorites is of a Turkish lady who makes the best bread-inspired recipes. When she punches that dough after it rises . . . fuck me, it’s chef’s kiss!
But back to my apartment. I went for the whole dark cigar-room vibe even though I don’t smoke cigars—see, electric thunder. Blacks and gunmetal grays span the walls and in tasteful accents while camel-colored leather furniture takes center stage. An oversized area rug adds a cozy feel, tasteful art decorates the walls, and cream-colored curtains add a touch of lightness to the space.
“This is really nice,” she says. “I half expected to walk into a bachelor pad, but this is a man’s apartment. Like a man’s man.”
“Thank you,” I say, smoothing my palms together. “I’d consider myself a man’s man.”
“You clearly have the lotioned balls to prove it,” she jokes while gesturing to my crotch.
Heh.
Yeah . . .
Glad we can bring that full circle.
I pull on the back of my neck. “I go through a lot of lotion.”
Not something she needs to know.
“I can imagine.” Her eyes meet mine. “Any special type? Perhaps a burnt mahogany scent. Make that sack extra manly.”
Christ. Change the subject, man.
“Just regular,” I answer while clearing my throat. “Anyway, I, uh, I take great pride in my apartment.”
“I see that. You should. It’s really nice in here.” Her eyes fall to the coffee table in my living room, where I have three books stacked with a candle on top. “Do you even read those books?”
“Nope,” I say. “It’s all part of the design and feel of the apartment.”
“Ah, so you’re trying to portray intelligence when, in reality, there’s very little intelligence in this apartment?”
“Pretty mu—” I pause, thinking about it. “Uh, no. There’s intelligence in this apartment.”
She turns toward me and smiles. “Well, there must be intelligence if you’re wise enough to pair a camel-colored couch with a gunmetal-gray wall.”
“Some might say brave,” I say.
“Very brave.” She pats my chest, and I let out the breath I was holding in one giant swoop. Her eyes meet mine as she says, “You know, I’m just trying to lighten the mood. Make conversation. No need to hold your breath . . . or your tongue. I know this is awkward for both of us, and I don’t want it to be awkward.”
It’s awkward, all right.
It’s never not going to be awkward.
But I’m not going to say that to her.
“I’m not awkward. Are you awkward? Because I feel fine. Great actually. Rip-roaring and ready to go.”
Her smile grows wider. “Oh yes, I’m rip-roaring and ready to go as well.”
“Great.” I stuff my hands in my pockets and rock on my heels. “Because I think if we keep everything super professional, we can make the most of this situation. Possibly excel as the best boss/assistant relationship.”
“Wouldn’t that just be fantastic,” she says. “Imagine the accolades we could win by not being awkward but rather rip-roaring professionals. People around us might be so impressed that they write to the Foreign Press. Tell them there needs to be an award made just for us.”
I know she’s being sarcastic.
I know she’s trying to lighten the mood.
But, Jesus fuck . . . I’d be fucking thrilled to win an award documenting my excellence in professionalism and managerial skills.
“What would the trophy look like?” I ask, feeling myself drift off in thought.
“Maybe a statue of a man with a woman at his feet, clutching his leg and looking for direction.”
I glance her way and scratch my jaw. “Uh, not exactly what I was thinking.”
She chuckles and places her purse on the coffee table, then pulls out a notebook and a pen. “Maybe we can brainstorm later, but for now, why don’t you show me around and tell me what I can do for you.”
Right, what she can do for me.
Focus, Posey.
If you want to mentally win the award, you have to act like the boss who’d win it.