11. Straw into Gold
Straw into Gold
I’m the luckiest woman in the world. Full stop. If it seems like everything falls into my lap… for an entire month, everything actually does.
I’m working at my dream job. It’s a dream because I’m paying someone to do it for me.
My direct reports look up to me not only because I’m literally taller, but because I’ve earned their respect and admiration.
I’m a mentor figure, Yoda-like in my wisdom and Mozart-like in my proficiency at my job.
They’ve put me on a pedestal, and the pedestal is a great place to be.
For the first time in my life, I understand the appeal of being a cult leader.
Not that I’m intentionally starting a cult, nor do I condone cults, I just see the appeal of having disciples who hang onto my every word and bring me vanilla lattes every morning.
Just so we’re clear, I try not to let their admiration get to my head.
I have a framed affirmation on my desk that says, “Do not girlboss too close to the sun” to keep me grounded and to remind me to fetch my own lattes on occasion.
My social life is blossoming. I’m having weekly cocktails with Nina and attending HR Todd’s baby shower next Friday (I’ve been asked to be the godmother).
I personally plan every single birthday party at the office, filling the cubicles with balloons and stuffing my coworkers with cake.
My schedule is full and my bank account is thriving. Most importantly, I’m thriving.
And busy.
Too busy to get around to learning the ASSET or asking Rhys to teach me.
But Rhys doesn’t mind. In his twisted way, he likes doing my homework.
We have a mutual understanding. I send him my new directives.
He does the work, and the results magically appear on my work computer as if delivered by a workshop of studious little elves.
So far, our communication has been relegated to texts: bubbly questions from me, terse one-word replies from Rhys.
We’ve only had one in-person meeting: in a hole-in-the-wall Thai restaurant on Sepulveda Boulevard.
Over spicy basil beef and drunken noodles, we strike another deal.
We’re seated by the window, the noonday sun shining over my end of the table, encasing me in a golden halo while neglecting Rhys’ side altogether.
He’s smothered in shadows, which is a good place to be for someone with his fashion sense.
“Are you sure I can’t pay you more?” At some primal level, I’m still suffering from the ultimate form of imposter syndrome.
I’m walking on air, winning at my career, yet at the same time, I’m aware that there’s no such thing as a free lunch.
By the immutable laws of physics, what goes up will inevitably come down.
And if there’s anyone who has the ability to screw me over, it’s my secret coworker.
So the only way I can think of to postpone my inevitable fall from grace is to throw money at the problem. “Are you sure?” I arch an eyebrow, still in shock that Rhys is not trying to milk me for more cash. “I can afford you now.”
“The money’s fine,” comes his terse reply. He picks the scorched basil leaves from his food, his body slumped in a dissociated hump.
“What do you want, then?” I ask, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice. I never thought it would be so hard to give someone a stupid amount of money for ‘easy’ work. Just my luck, I found the one person who couldn’t be bought.
“Something that money can’t buy,” he says quietly.
I frown, studying my co-conspirator. There’s something off about him.
He’s always grumpy and unpleasant, but there was also a devious energy about him that’s missing today.
Rhys looks drained, his eyes rimmed with shadows, his hoodie even more grey and distasteful than usual.
If I were his friend, I’d ask him why he looked so sad and try to cheer him up.
But I’m not his friend.
I’m technically his employer, paying a small fortune for his services. We’re hostile business partners.
“If money isn’t what you’re after…” I watch him brood over the rim of my drink. “I wish you’d tell me so I can give it to you.”
At last, he looks up, and his expression almost makes me choke on my Thai iced tea.
There it is again! I’ve seen that look before: in the conference room after my presentation.
He was feigning a keen interest at the beach below, and I’d thought or hoped he’d seen a bikini-clad hottie to warrant such an expression.
Crudely speaking, if a face could have a hard-on, Rhys’ face had a massive hard-on that day.
And it’s having a second one now. In front of me. Yikes.
I want to drape my napkin over his head and scold, “Come on, man. Not while we’re eating.”
That look… It’s making me blush. It can only be described as yearning.
Unabashed, naked, passionate yearning. Trust me, I know what yearning is.
I’ve spent countless hours locked in my office with the privacy shades drawn, binge-reading spicy romantasy.
That’s the look of many a fae prince when he wants to dick down the erstwhile heroine.
I call it the ‘fae fuck face’ in that when you see the face, you immediately know the pointy-eared Shadow Daddy wants to fuck.
The question is: Is that yearning meant for me?
Or maybe all the adoration I get at work has gone to my head, and it’s not about me at all.
Maybe Rhys wants to fuck past me, like into his inner demons or something, and I just happen to be standing in the way?
In that case, I should step aside in case I get fucked as an innocent bystander, a victim of a drive-by fucking.
“What are you thinking about?” Rhys asks, suddenly studying me. “You have a weird look on your face.”
I have a weird look? With a shiver, I snatch up a napkin and wipe up the ring of water left by my tea. “The ASSET.”
“You never think about the ASSET,” he says absently.
“Well, I am now,” I snap. “Let’s be serious here. You’re not helping me out of the goodness of your heart. You want something. Just tell me what it is so I can either grant or deny.”
He snorts. “‘Grant or deny’? That’s authoritative language. Are you cosplaying the CEO today?”
As part of my daily visualization practice, I manifest a CEO-level of confidence every day. But I’m not going to volunteer that bit of information to feed his mockery. “Just tell me already!”
Rhys turns his head, signaling for the check, and snuffing out the conversation.
“I’m working up the courage to ask,” he mumbles, “in the meantime,” his eyes finally meets mine and the ball bustin’ Rhys I’ve come to know and barely tolerate returns, “I would like to attend another of your illuminating presentations. I understand the next one’s on Thursday? ”
“Why?” I asked, baffled by his request. “Hoping I’ll finally screw up this time?”
“Maybe,” he says, sitting up straighter. “Or maybe I think it’s entertaining to watch you at work. I want a front-row seat to watch shit like you float.”
I think about what he said for a moment. Even though I know it’s true, I don’t appreciate him calling me ‘shit.’ “Are you saying I’m ‘the shit’?”
His lips twitch, almost a smile but not quite. “In a way.”
I’m silent for a beat, mulling over the basics of what he wants, which is to watch me present the ASSET. It’s strange. Some could call it ‘kinky.’ Well, at least if he thinks I’m a lying piece of shit, he wouldn’t want to sleep with me, right?
I grab the check, but he beats me to it. I watch him pen in a generous tip for a meal he barely ate, bitterly chewing on the knowledge that I’d offered to pay for all our meals. I don’t understand him or this puzzling power play he insists on foisting upon our business partnership.
I make more money than he does; why doesn’t he take advantage of that?
Unless…
Unless he’s waiting to sneak a fast one on me. A transactional relationship is very cut and dry. All the terms are laid out for the respective parties. It’s honest and clear. But Rhys is muddying the terms by being purposefully obtuse, which could only mean he’s up to no good.
What do you want, Rumpelstiltskin?
What do you yearn for?
Help me, help you.
“Are you sure you don’t want more money?” I press.
Rhys glances up, dropping his pen very pointedly. “You’ll know soon enough.”
* * *
“I can’t seem to figure him out…” I say, staring at the top of Angie’s head.
We’re spending our Saturday at IKEA, scoping out a new bookshelf and possibly a plant stand.
Angie is down on her haunches, measuring the length of a Kalax.
Picking out new living room furniture was supposed to be a fun roommate bonding experience, but today, I’m too distracted to enjoy it. “He’s up to something. I know it.”
“This one fits,” she says, easing herself up. “For a room divider, I think we should get two.”
“Yeah. Okay.” I begin chewing on my thumbnail, then abruptly stop before I could ruin my manicure. When did I pick up this disgusting habit? “What do you think he wants?”
“Carina,” Angie pats me on the shoulder. “The answer has always been right in front of your nose. You’re just too dumb to see it.”
I roll my eyes. “Remind me why we’re friends again?”
Angie smiles, revealing deep dimples, and snaps a picture of the warehouse bin location for the bookshelf. “Because I’ll never lie to you, even as you lie to yourself. Rumpelstiltskin wants access to your box in exchange for spinning straw into gold.”
“He does not!” Mortified, I glance around the crowded aisle.
“Uh-huh.” Plopping down in a low-slung armchair, Angie leans back and checks out the lumbar support. “Nope. No good. This chair’s breaking my back. Help me out!”
I grab her hands and yank her to her feet. “He’s never made a move on me. And need I remind you? He implied that I was ugly.”
“Oh, that,” Angie waves off my excuses. “Classic case of foot-in-mouth syndrome.”