But for the record, I’d like it to be known that everything I’m going to ask her to do are tasks I can do for myself. Things I’ve been doing for years with no problem. I want it to be noted that any wild or obscene shit I tell Wylie to do should not be held against me.
I’m merely a pawn in the battle between Coach Wood and his daughter.
And despite being a man’s man with perfectly manscaped and lotioned balls, I clearly have no idea how to say . . . no.
“Well, as you can see, this is my apartment.” I stretch out my arms as if showing off the place . . . even though she’s been here for the past few minutes.
She presses her hand to her chest. “Is it? Wow, I had no idea.”
“Cheeky,” I say as I continue. “This is the main living space, which is, uh . . . off limits for you. So no lounging around on this camel-colored couch.” I point at the couch. “And, uh, no watching TV on this gigantic screen. And, uh . . . no, uh, no rolling around on the area rug.”
“Ooo, really? I was really hoping to get my rolling done in here, but I can find a new place.” She makes a note in her notebook, then looks up at me. “Where should I do my morning staring? Should I keep that to my own space, or am I allowed to come in here and stare at the wall?”
I work my jaw to the side, seeing how easy it is for her to make fun of me. “Your own space will suffice.”
“Noted.” She marks something on her notepad again.
“But you are allowed in here for certain reasons.”
“Like restocking the lotion,” she offers.
“Yes,” I say tersely. “And cleaning, restocking the groceries, and delivering whatever I might need. Other than that, you must stay in your own space.”
“Got it. Don’t bother Mr. Posey.”
“Levi,” I say.
“Don’t bother Levi. Shouldn’t be a problem. I can manage whatever space you offer up. Like I said, it’s a real help.”
“Sure, yeah. Should I show you that space now?”
“That would be great. That way I know what I’m working with.”
I gesture toward the open-concept kitchen, and we both walk that way.
I hate this.
I hate how uncomfortable this is. Clearly, she’s trying to be grateful for the opportunity, and I’m preparing to rain down hell on her day. It’s the last fucking thing I want to do, yet here I am, about to introduce her to a hole in the wall that she can sleep in despite my lavish apartment.
And you’re probably wondering, did I spruce it up? Did I make it as inviting as I did when Blakely was moving into Halsey’s place? The answer is no. I didn’t even wipe down one cobweb. Not even sure what the hell is going on in the hole because the door hasn’t been opened in years. But I kept it untouched to help dissociate myself. Makes me feel like I’m taking on the boss role rather than the caretaker.
“The entrance to your room is right back here,” I say, leading her past the open kitchen, past the pantry off to the left, and down a narrow hallway toward a door at the very end. “Not sure the condition of the place because I’ve never used it, so, I’m sorry in advance.” I open the door and switch on a light, highlighting the small room, less than two hundred square feet. There’s a twin bed off to the right with no mattress—huh, she’s going to need one of those—and a nightstand with one dilapidated drawer. There’s one overhead light in the room, one of those traditional boob lights that every tract home has installed in a hallway. Just past the bed is a door leading to the bathroom, where you can wash your hands and sit on the toilet at the same time. I know this because I joked about it when I first viewed the apartment. There’s also a stand-up shower that I couldn’t really fit in, but she will do just fine. A separate entrance from the outside is at the other end of the room.
It’s much bleaker than I remember.
Maybe a touch spooky.
And definitely not up to my man-boy standards.
“Oh wow, this is bigger than I thought it was going to be,” she says, moving into the space with hopeful eyes, which feels surprising. Her father is a world-class coach. She grew up with money and has lived on the higher end of life, yet she can be positive about the space I’m presenting her? How?
“I can, uh, get you a mattress.” I point at the empty bed.
“No need.” She waves me off. “We actually have one in the spare bedroom at my dad’s house that I can grab.”
“Okay, and sorry about this nightstand,” I say as I reach down and tug the drawer open only for it to fall to the ground with a crash. “Shit, sorry.” I bend down to pick it up just as a furry critter skitters over my hand and across the floor.
Mother.
Of.
God.
The world stops spinning as the skin on my knuckles tingles with the sensation of clammy, claw feet. I stare down at my hand and then to the right, where the furry critter scurries around the baseboard of the tiny bedroom.
“Oh . . . my . . . fuck,” I scream like a man whose nuts just got lassoed off before levitating off the floor and right on top of the slats of the bed. “Mouse,” I squeal. “There’s a fucking mouse in here.” I point at it as it runs back and forth. “A rodent. Right there. Holy fuck, a rodent.”
Wylie turns toward the mouse just as it scurries toward me again and under the bed.
“Ahhhh, it’s under me,” I scream as I attempt to leap off the bed, but unfortunately, the bed can’t handle my weight, and the slat I’m standing on buckles together in a snap and my foot lands on the ground with a resounding squish.
I still.
My blood goes cold.
And I look up at Wylie, who is now wincing.
Please fuck . . . no.
Nope.
No.
Breathing heavily, I rest my hand against the exposed brick wall next to me as I very quietly and calmly say, “Is . . . is it under my foot?”
She shifts uncomfortably and cringes. “That would be a yes.”
I slowly nod, reality puncturing me.
“The whole thing?”
“Yes. Your very large foot carries quite the radial stomp.”
I gulp.
“Would you say it’s . . . dead?”
She glances down at my foot, then back up at me. “I would be surprised if it’s not.”
“Okay.” I swallow my building saliva. “Okay, everything will be okay.” I remain still, unmoving. “I’m, uh, I’m going to need some privacy.”
“If you need to scream in private, I’m going to hear it, so you might as well just do it now.”
“Right.” I take a deep breath right before a full-on shiver takes over my body from the tips of my toes to the roots of the hair on top of my head and I let out an ear-piercing squeal that echoes through the quaint space. “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”
When I’m done, Wylie takes a step forward. “Want me to help you out of your shoe?”
“I just, uh, I need a second.”
“Right, understandable.” She crosses her arms at her chest and looks around. “While we wait, I’ll tell you that this space will be perfect. I don’t need much.” She sticks her head in the bathroom, and for a moment, I catch her nose scrunching up in disgust. “Yup, lovely. It will be great.”
Foot still squishing the mouse, I say, “It’s a touch small.”
She pops her head back out and says, “It’s free, so it works.” She glances down at my foot, then back up at me, clearly noticing I’m not ready yet to address what’s under my foot. All I have to say is thank fuck I’m wearing shoes. “I assume you want me using this entrance here rather than moving through your apartment.”
“Yeah, that would be preferred.”
“Not a problem.” She sighs. “You ready?”
I squeeze my hands into fists. “I fear what you might hear when I lift my foot.”
“If you’re afraid I might judge you, fear not, I judged you when you said you lotioned your balls.”
I press my fingers to my forehead. “Yeah, that’s fair.”
“So how about this. As my first act as your new assistant, I will hold your shoe down while you slip your foot out. Then you can just walk back into your apartment. I’ll take care of the remnants and wash your shoe.”
“Burn,” I say.
“Huh?”
“Burn my shoe. I’ll never be able to wear these again.”
She smirks. “Mouse traps as footwear. I don’t think that ever caught on as a popular fashion choice, so I can understand that. How about I donate them? The death history of the shoe will remain with us, but the shoes can live on.”
“I don’t care what you do with the shoe, but it can’t go back into my closet.”
“Consider it taken care of.”
“Oh,look at all these baking supplies.” She looks through my kitchen cabinets, making herself at home while I remain shaken and stunned from rodent death by the size fourteen shoe incident. I squealed in front of her. I broke the bed. I killed a fucking rodent with my foot. The boys will NEVER hear about that. “What, uh . . . what’s going on here? Do you like to bake?”
“I do,” I say, trying to forget about the mouse I murdered. “When it strikes me, I like to have the basics on hand.”
“And what do you like to bake the most?”
“Bready items,” I answer.
“Like . . .”
I shrug. “Like a cranberry orange bread or a pastry. Just carbs.”
“Well, maybe if I do a good job as your assistant, you’ll bake me something one day.” She shuts the cabinet door.
Bake something for her? Hell, I would like to bake with her.
Both of us wearing nothing but aprons.
Me behind her as she sifts flour only to boop her nose with a little bit of it.
We’d chuckle.
I’d get hard.
And then I’d fuck her on the counter.
“Or you don’t have to,” she says. “Don’t want to overstep.”
“Huh?” I ask, being pulled out of my thoughts. “Uh, no, I can bake you something.”
She pats my chest and smirks. “Don’t let me pressure you.” And then she moves into the living room. “Do you have any plants I need to take care of?”
If only.
I think about Sherman . . . original Sherman. Long story short, Halsey had a bonsai tree. It was decapitated, and I tried to bring it back to life without him knowing because I felt bonded to it, but I did not succeed. And it wasn’t from a lack of me trying every trick in the book. His trunk was snapped as if his neck had been broken in half, and there was no saving him. I buried him alone in the park just outside of my apartment building in the middle of the night with a headlamp and a gardening shovel. I said a few well wishes and let him compost into the ground.
Devastating.
“No plants,” I say.
“Would you like a plant? Perhaps a ficus tree in the corner might add the green you lack in your living space.”
“You think I’m lacking green?” I ask. “I have some green right over there.” I point at my fake plant on the shelf.
“But that’s fake.” She scrunches her nose in this cute way. “You want some life in the apartment. I know Joanna Gaines is huge on having real plants around the home.”
I gasp as my hand presses to my chest. “You follow Joanna?”
She softly smiles. “Do you?”
“How could I not?” I reply. “That couch is from the Magnolia brand.”
She glances at my couch, then back at me. “You know, I thought I recognized it. Great taste, Mr. Posey.”
“Hey.” I point at her. “What did I say about that shit? Just call me Levi or Posey.”
“Oh, I could never call you Posey. That feels very bro-like. What about Mr. Levi?”
“What about just Levi and leave it at that?”
“Fine, but just remember, I’m the one trying to be professional here. You are my boss, after all.”
Don’t fucking remind me.
“I can still be your boss and be Levi at the same time.”
She shrugs and then writes on her notepad. “Buy a ficus.”
“What kind of ficus are we talking about? Because I honestly really like the looks of a fiddle leaf fig tree but haven’t had the time or energy to really look for one.”
“Oh, I can find you a nice one. Would you like a pot for it or a basket? Personally, I think a basket would add some nice texture to the space. We can put the tree over there in the corner where it will get some sunlight but also add an element to the space that softens it a little more, especially with the woven pot.”
I nod, envisioning the fiddle leaf fig tree. Fuck yeah, that would look amazing.
A piece of my design puzzle I haven’t been able to fulfill.
“Yeah, I think that’ll be nice.”
“Perfect. I’ll get right on that. Shall you show me the rest of the space?”
“Sure,” I say, thinking that maybe this assistant thing won’t be as bad as I thought. First, she takes care of the mouse—RIP, you mangy rodent—and now my very own fiddle leaf fig tree. Wow. I won’t let her know how excited I am about the prospect of having one. And in a fucking basket . . . talk about living the good life. My apartment will be unmatched compared to the other guys. Halsey might have a bonsai tree, but I’ll have a giant, and I mean leaves taking up the apartment space giant, fiddle leaf fig plant that will fill my apartment with oxygen and goodness.
None of them will have that.
None.
I internally cackle, knowing once again I’ll have a leg up on my nimrod friends.
I lead her to my office, which is more like a den. I had some sliding French quarter black-framed barn doors installed in case I ever wanted to shut them, but given that I’m the only one here, they’re more for show than use.
“This is my office. I usually answer emails here in the morning while drinking my coffee. So if you ever need me to look at something or adjust my calendar, you can leave Post-it notes along my desk.”
“Okay. Do you need my email so you can send me access to your calendar?”
“Yeah, just text it to me, and I’ll introduce you to everyone I work with.”
“Do you want to have morning meetings? I can bring you coffee, and we can discuss the day.”
“Uh . . . you don’t have to do that,” I say even though the thought of her delivering me coffee in the morning, and then sitting cross-legged on my desk has its charms.
“Not a problem. Just here to make your life easier.”
“Thanks.” I move her down the hall. “This is the spare guest room that no one ever uses.” She pokes her head in, and I know she spots the comfy bed and the large, decorated, cozy space. I feel guilt in my gut, knowing she has to move into the cold, brick-exposed dungeon where I just squished a mouse where she’s supposed to sleep. Lucky her. “I, uh . . . I just feel like if you’re in this room—”
“You don’t need to explain,” she says. “I get it. We have to keep things separate. I’m seriously grateful for the space you’ve given me. Dead mouse and all.” I cringe, the feel of it under my foot still throbbing in my toes. “Also, I love what you did with the throw pillows and the comforter. Did you design the bedding yourself?”
At least she’s good at changing the subject. And has a good eye for style. Good taste in designers. Clothes . . .
“I did.” I stick my hands in my pockets and puff my chest with pride. “Spent a lot of time in West Elm, trying to figure out what I liked.”
“You did a fantastic job . . . Levi.” Fuck, that sounds good rolling off her tongue. “You really have an eye for design and colors.”
“Thank you,” I reply, letting the compliment go straight to my head.