9. Chapter 9 #2
Oliver takes the contract from me and flips through the pages, leaving behind his famous O.W. signature, which I’d seen on the very same NDA copy Nigel made me the day we met.
Ah, good times.
Suddenly, with the prospect of being rich, the horrible feeling in my stomach fades; I decided to be the best damn employee/nanny to ever exist.
I stand there in his kitchen without an ounce of shame, metaphorical money signs in my eyes as I watch Oliver slip my contract back into its plastic folder, then hold out a black AMEX card and slide it over to me.
“This is to be used for weekly expenses like shopping, school supplies and anything else Theo may need. Five hundred pounds will go in every Monday morning, and-are you listening?” He pauses, since after taking the card, I just held it gently, gazing at the sight of one of these cards in real life, treating it with the same care as a newborn baby.
“Y-yes, I’m listening.” I nod, putting the card down.
“As I was saying, you will receive five hundred pounds a week for essentials; anything left over will be left for emergencies only. If there is a school trip or anything that costs more than the weekly fund, contact Nigel, who will have the amount transferred over.” He finishes, raising his eyebrows to make sure I understood every word. I blindly nod.
“If you purchase anything above the designated amount or dare to use the card for your own gain, I will be taking that money out of your pay, and you will be penalised further for misuse.” He adds, using a stern tone, but all I can do is giggle at the word ‘penalised’.
Come on, that was funny. Did the Tin Man here choose not to laugh at the finer things?
Just cause he was serious all the time didn’t mean I had to be.
It wasn’t in my contract…wait, was it?
“I promise I will only use the card for exactly what you told me,” I reassure him. When I got a nod of approval, he then placed another smaller stack of papers in front of me, the kind I was quickly becoming familiar with.
“You have seen this kind of contract before, but this is an NDA, one that works both in and outside of our contract. It states that if you tell anyone or share anything you hear or learn whilst working here, including selling stories to the press or taking my boy to meet anyone, I haven’t given permission for you to do so, I will sue you for everything, including the clothes on your back. ” He declares in a warning tone.
“Are you making me sign this because Theo is your secret love child, and you don’t want anyone to know about it?” I tease, but after watching his scowl grow, I quickly withdraw my joke, cause I swear I can hear his teeth grinding in irritation.
“I’m sorry. I tend to tease out during serious situations. It helps me feel less awkward.” I reveal, picking the pen back up and aiming to sign the document, but he grabs my wrist.
“Miss Jackson,” He calls,
“I make thousands of pounds an hour; I’ve been named the top Corporate Lawyer four years in a row. May I offer you some free advice?” He asks, his grip on my wrist loosening a little, and I finally notice the slight tinge of a strong British accent mixed with something else.
Probably from the one or two countries he’s spent time in, gossip I’d heard courtesy of Macy.
But this was different, and it’s disturbing how the combination of his voice and touch makes me want to cross one leg over the other to help me get through the rest of his statement.
I don’t trust myself not to stutter, so I settle for another nod.
“I can assure you the contract you just signed is immaculate, so long as we both do as we’re told; however, in the future, I advise you not to sign anything so quickly, especially without having a lawyer look at this first or until the person you’re planning on signing with has finished speaking.
” He suggests, staring into my soul for several moments, then gently releases his grip.
A shiver runs through me at the loss of his touch, and I subtly press my thighs together as I thank him for the advice. Though it feels like he was scolding me, a flutter runs through me as a pool of heat begins to grow in my abdomen. I slowly put the pen down.
“Continue,” I reply, hoping he doesn’t notice how tightly I’m clenching my thighs together because his fancy lawyer voice shamefully turns me on.
“Nigel has pointed out to me that you have a prior engagement every Sunday and a close-knit group of people you meet frequently during the weekends. Which is none my business therefore, I will not ask, but I want to let you know I had added a section to this specific NDA permitting you to take Theo along with you to these gatherings if need be, so long as he isn’t photographed, posted on social media and the few people you engage with do not share any information about him without any outside parties. ”
“Should they do it anyway, this contract states that you will be the one responsible and you will be the one who’s peni-punished. Are we clear?” He asks, and I take a moment to decipher his big lawyer words.
“Clear as day,” I respond with a smile. Then there’s a pause between us. “Can I sign this now?” I ask, attempting to reach for the pen.
He stares at me, his same surly look unchanged.
“If you see no other queries and choose not to have this looked over by a professional, then, yes, you may sign it now.” He gives permission, watching me in amazement as I pick up the pen and sign on the dotted line. Then, slide the contract back over to him.
He imprints his caramel gaze into my skin, then picks up the NDA and adds it to the folder.
“Very well, I will have Nigel email you your copies of each contract unless you’d prefer physical copies of them. Please contact him via email.” He states, exiting the kitchen. Down the hall to the front door, and I follow him like a hopeless puppy.
I watch him slot the folder inside his expensive leather briefcase, which I bet is real leather and pull something else out, handing it to me.
“Please add these contact numbers to your phone; they include my work number, personal number, and Nigel’s.
For all enquiries referring to your job, questions about Theo or anything else in between those categories, please contact Nigel.
You may call or contact me via my personal mobile number for emergencies only. ”
“Once you’ve added the numbers to your contacts, please call, text or email Nigel with a list of ways to contact you.” He recites, slipping on his coat, briefly looking down at my Gudetama slippers while picking up his briefcase.
“Nigel has emailed you Theo’s schedule, including his food diary, when he needs to be picked up from school and his evening and bedtime routine, just in case I’m not home in time to do so.” I don’t say anything and just look up at him with a slow nod.
I feel awkward, like I was sending my husband off to war, but Oliver Walters was neither my husband nor were the two of us in any kind of relationship apart from a strictly business one, and we weren’t particularly keen on each other.
Maybe it’s because I feel odd being left alone in a stranger’s home.
“This is your set of keys to the home, and you’ll find all the information you need about how to turn the alarm system on and off in the email Nigel has sent. Please make it a habit to turn it on every time you leave the house, even if you won’t be travelling far.” Oliver explains.
Pointing to the white envelope resting on the small table by the door as I did my best to take in this vast amount of information, and as he was about to leave, he turned around again.
“Ah, before I forget. No inviting people over without my permission; everything from the subscriptions, passwords, Wi-Fi to the cleaning details is in the email you’ve been sent.
Should anything break or turn out faulty, contact Nigel, and he’ll get it fixed.
There is also a set of keys in the envelope to the Black Range Rover parked outside, which is free for you to use.
I was unsure whether or not you had your licence; nevertheless, refer that information to Nigel.
” He adds, flicking his wrist to check the time.
“Nigel is available to you all day if you have any other questions. I’m off to work and will be back at six thirty sharp.” He states, turning around. His hand is resting on the doorknob when I grab the arm of his coat, making him freeze. When I let go, he turns to face me again.
He stares, waiting for me to speak, but even I wasn’t sure why I stopped him.
Probably the nerves of my job are starting.
I’d never done something like this before, and my experience with children aside, I am afraid to fail.
But I can’t let him know that, so I blurt out the first thing I can think of.
“Wait, I have a question,” I state, but suddenly can’t think of a single thing to ask.
“Which is?” he prompts, glancing down at his watch again. I was probably the reason he was late for work, and if there’s one thing I’d learnt from Macy, it’s that Oliver Walters is always punctual, so to stop myself from holding him up any longer, and say the first question that came to mind.
“What do I call you?”
Idiot, I was holding up this man’s life because I didn’t want to be alone, but covered it up with what do I call him?
Oh my god, I did not just ask him that.
“What do you call me?” he repeats, confused.
“Yeah, I mean, technically, I work for you. Does that mean I call you sir? Boss? Mr. Walters? Oliver?” I explain.
“Call me wherever you deem is appropriate,” he shrugs, checking his watch again when the urge to ask if I could call him Surly Bastard was too strong, but then I suggest something else.
“Shall I call you, Ollie?” I tease with an awkward giggle, but the deadly glare and cold frown I get from him choke it to a halt. “Let’s go with Oliver… For now.” I correct myself and watch his face start to relax as he nods in agreement and opens the door.