7. Ellie Hart
1,267—Miles has 1,267 unread emails in his inbox. The man organizes his closet by season as well as color, but doesn’t have a clue what’s waiting for him in this inbox. Apparently his agent Brock takes care of communication with his major sponsors, but everything else goes to his email account. The one that I am now in charge of.
While today hasn’t been bad, I can say with certainty that I do not want to be a personal assistant for the rest of my life. After our tour this morning, I set up my work phone, filled out all the tax information and paperwork for my position, and then went through all of these emails one by one. It’s been tedious to say the least. But at least Miles isn’t around to get under my skin. He said he was going out, but that he’d be back later in his home gym to work with his personal trainer if I needed him.
Something tells me you don’t need a class at all. What gave him the right to say something like that? We were having fun sparring, or at least I was. Suddenly our swords went from wood to metal. My composure held, but just barely.
I take a deep breath of salty air, grateful that I chose to work out here on the deck. One thing Miles has going for him is this view. It makes sense that he bought the house for it. If I had the money, I would have too. The waves crash in the distance, and each time they draw back from the shore I imagine them carrying my problems away. Unfortunately, just like those problems, the waves always come back.
My fingertips find their way to my right earring to twist it. Focus, Ellie. I draw my attention back to my laptop screen with a sigh. I worked through lunch, mostly because I’m used to it, but also because I forgot to ask Miles’ policy about breaks. A protein bar from my bag held me over, but I’m looking forward to the giant burger I’ll be picking up from Sand Dollar Diner on the way home.
After all my work, I’ve got the emails organized into various categories. Since I don’t know how Miles wants me to respond, I’ll have to seek him out and see if he has time to look over them.
Reluctantly, I push out of the cushioned rattan deck chair and step inside. The air in here feels frigid in comparison to the balmy warmth outside. I walk down the hall to the gym door he showed me earlier. My hand hovers over the knob. Something tells me you don’t need a class at all. Why did he have to go and say something like that? The rest of the tour was stilted and awkward enough, but now I have to keep working for him. The words shouldn’t be that big of a deal, but they’re sticking to my brain like a stubborn price tag sticker. I keep trying to scrape them off, but it’s just not working.
I shake my head, take a deep breath, then open the door. What I see makes me freeze. Miles. A sweaty, shirtless Miles. He’s leaned back on a bench, pushing two large dumbbells up in a chest press while his trainer counts his repetitions. His mouth is set in a hard line and the look in his eyes sends tingles all the way to my toes. I can feel his dedication and passion from across the room.
“Two more,” his trainer says. Neither of them have noticed me yet. I can’t bring myself to move or make so much as a sound.
Miles pushes the weights up with a low growl that has me feeling much too warm.
“One more.”
His arms are shaking as he pushes up another time, but he doesn’t stop like I anticipate. No, he pushes himself another time, and then tries again until he can’t get the weights more than halfway up. His trainer shakes his head with a laugh.
“Why am I here if you don’t listen to me? You don’t need to push until you fail for every exercise.”
Miles doesn’t respond. He simply sets the weights down and grabs his water bottle. A line of water streams down his neck as he drinks and I have to bite my cheek to not gape. I need to speak up soon before I get caught staring and he fires me for being another infatuated assistant. Or worse–teases me incessantly for the foreseeable future.
“Hey,” I say as Miles lowers his water bottle. His attention flicks over to me. “I’m sorry for interrupting, I just wanted to see when you’d have a minute to go over some of your emails?” My voice is more breathy than I’d like for it to be. His eyes lock onto mine. The intensity in them from before hasn’t entirely faded. I’m overwhelmed by a sliver of it being directed at me.
“Yeah, we were just finishing up here. I’ll be out in a minute.”
His trainer hands him a towel and he uses it to dry the sweat on his chest. I track the movement with my eyes.
“Ellie?” I tense. My face heats as I drag my eyes up to meet Miles’ gaze once more. “Is that all you needed?” There’s something in his voice that tells me I’m as caught as I feel.
“Yes,” I breathe out. “That’s all.” I take a shaky step back before turning on my heel and speeding back into the hall. I haven’t dared to open the fridge even though Miles gave me free rein of the kitchen. But I find myself sprinting there for water and to maybe stick my head in his freezer.
Get it together, Ellie,I chastise myself. The man has his shirt off and suddenly every ounce of professionalism is drained from my mind. If I’m honest, though, it wasn’t the lack of a shirt that did me in. It was the look in his eyes that said he wouldn’t stop until he won. That kind of determination makes my blood heat, because I know it well. It’s what has kept me going through every setback I’ve faced. And who would have thought golf would be the driving force behind that look? Not me, that’s for sure.
I open the fridge and find yet another meticulously organized area of his home. There are premade meals in labeled glass containers, protein shakes lined up facing the exact same way, and each shelf or drawer seems to be a category. Does he have someone organize this daily or does he do it himself? He didn’t mention fridge organization in his list of tasks, so it isn’t my job. It’s hard to believe he takes the time to make sure everything is in perfect order like this.
With a shake of my head, I pull out the pitcher of filtered water, set it on the kitchen island, then search the cabinets for a glass. I’m in the middle of my search when I hear a voice behind me.
“Looking for something?” Miles asks.
I jump in surprise. “Just a glass for some water,” I say, not turning around. I’m sure my face is as red as my hair right now. Whatever I’m feeling needs to disappear fast before I can face him.
“They’re over here.” I glance to my right to see Miles open a cabinet across the kitchen and pull down a tall glass.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. Our fingers brush when he hands the glass to me and I suck in a breath.
“Are you okay?” Miles asks as I start to pour. I keep my eyes on the cup.
“Yes, of course.” I turn and put the pitcher back in the fridge. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I was worried I made you uncomfortable,” he says. I dare to look at him. I’m grateful he’s fully clothed again, wearing a black t-shirt with his fitted joggers. He’s across the kitchen, leaning against the counter and clearly keeping distance between us.
“How so?” I ask, though I have a feeling where this is headed. He scratches the back of his neck.
“I’m used to being alone, or with Gideon while training. So when it got too warm I took my shirt off. I’d forgotten you were here.”
My face is so warm Crayola is going to name a new shade after me. Ellie’s blush, a bright, unmistakable red.
“Oh, you thought you made me uncomfortable?” I try to inject indifference into my voice. “I wasn’t phased at all.”
“You weren’t?” Miles asks, crossing his arms over his chest. There’s a challenge in his eyes I shouldn’t like, but I do. The heat from my face fades, and a new warmth arises deeper within me.
“Not at all. I go to the beach every day. I’ve seen tons of shirtless guys. What’s one more?” I shrug.
He watches me, his green eyes burning with something I can’t name. After a moment, he finally speaks. “I’m glad you were unaffected.” His lip twitches, like he wants to smile but won’t let himself. I merely dip my head in response. I don’t trust myself to speak just yet. I take a sip of water and pretend I don’t feel his eyes on me.
“So, what questions did you have about the emails?” he asks after a beat of silence. His tone has changed, and he sounds more professional than before. Relief swirls within me. Good. Professional is good. It’s what we need.