45. Indy
FORTY-FIVE
INDY
Once my hangover clears and I’ve let about five seconds of film reel from last night play through my mind, regret kicks in like a motherfucker. I throw my arm over my eyes and squeeze them shut.
Accepting a job—while drunk—working for the new boyfriend of the ex-love of your life.
I’m so fucking dumb.
I’m so unbelievably fucking dumb.
Monday morning, I’m standing in front of the mirror, staring at myself.
Charcoal slacks. A sky blue button-down. Matching belt and shoes.
I can’t be myself. I have to look sophisticated and in control of my life.
I have to look better than I actually am because Nick’s shacking up with a hot-as-fuck football player, and I’m renting a room from my sister and picking up Nick’s incredibly successful boyfriend’s clothes from the drycleaners.
He will hate it, though.
It’s the pettiness that finally gets me out the door.
“Break a leg,” Dia calls as I pass the living room doorway.
“If I mysteriously die in a rich-people accident, avenge my death, will you?”
She raises her brows at me. “What’s a rich-people accident?”
I lean my shoulder against the doorframe. “Being pushed off a yacht. I googled him last night, you know. He just signed a five-year, sixty-five-million-dollar contract. For all I know he hunts people for sport.”
Dia snorts a laugh into the coffee cup she’s holding. “I survived. You’ll be fine.”
“Fingers crossed.” I wave and head out.
The elevator ride, once I make it to Callum’s building, seems to take very little time compared to when I was here last time. Probably because I’m sober and haven’t a hundred percent decided whether I’m actually going to go through with this.
The elevator doors slide open to the atrium from before, still with all the polished marble, soft lighting, and wealthy-people serenity.
I open the door with the key card Dia gave me last night, and immediately my shoulders tense, but there’s no sign of Nick.
A small, humiliating part of me feels disappointed. I firmly tell that part to shut the fuck up.
Callum appears from around the corner, wearing dark blue sweatpants and a black compression shirt, looking offensively chipper for this early in the morning.
“Thought I heard a noise,” he says. “Good timing. I just finished my workout.” He tips his head to his left. “Let’s sit down in the kitchen?”
I follow him and end up sitting in the exact same spot where I ate that grilled cheese a few nights ago.
“Have you eaten breakfast yet?” he asks, pulling out a box from one of the cabinets. “Oatmeal?”
I resist making a face. “Not a fan.”
“I have other things.” Callum’s already heading toward the fridge. “Nick was here last night, so I’m stocked for a few days at least. He’s testing out recipes on me, so there’s fancy shit here too if you’re one of those sophisticated palette people he keeps yapping on about.”
He grins at me in that way two strangers who just found out they have a mutual acquaintance do.
I wince, and I don’t know if I’m successful at pretending I didn’t.
It’s the reminder again. That Nick is his.
I know he doesn’t know he’s doing anything at all with it, but it still twists and stabs every time.
I guess I better get used to it.
“I’m good. Uh, considering you pay me, shouldn’t I be doing some of this stuff for you?” I ask while I watch him measure oats with a cup.
“I’m not looking for a full-time servant, just somebody to deal with the admin for me. Maybe some other stuff here and there. I have a list from when Dia started working for me.” He pulls out his phone and starts scrolling before he glances up. “You want something to drink?”
“Sure. Water. I’ll get it.”
I get up, and he points to the cabinet with the glasses. We make pointless small talk until his breakfast is ready, and then we sit at the counter and go through the list.
It’s mostly pretty straightforward. Calls. Scheduling. Picking shit up. Dropping shit off. Organizing travel. Making sure Callum actually remembers he has obligations outside of football.
“Why does this list include ‘stop Callum from buying weird shit online’?” I ask when we get to the last item. It’s underlined three times.
Callum frowns and peers at the list. “Oh. That. You can totally ignore that one.”
I scroll lower and my brows hike up. “You bought a seventy-five-hundred-dollar toilet seat?”
“Not just a seat,” he says defensively. “The whole thing. It’s Japanese.”
“What?”
“The toilet. It’s heated, and it’s got all sorts of features. It’s in the en suite. You should try it. You’ll never want to sit on a regular toilet ever again.”
“Right,” I say slowly while I consult the list again. “The Bluetooth enabled smart fork?”
“It lights up and vibrates when you eat too fast. It’s great for healthier eating habits. If you just slow down the pace while you’re eating, you will consume less calories.” He says it like he’s auditioning for QVC. This could be yours for only seventy-eight ninety-nine!
“And I’m assuming that as a professional football player it must be extremely important to count calories,” I say with a slow, pointed nod.
He points his spoon at me. “One of these days I’ll get a lot of use out of this. You’ll see.”
“Uh-huh. What are European heating elements?” I ask.
He tries to pull the phone out of my hand. “I think we’ve spent enough time looking at the list already.”
I scroll lower while I hold the phone out of his reach. There are a lot of examples on that list. A touchscreen trash can? Blinds that rise and lower based on the amount of sun the room is getting. A weighted blanket for a dog. I haven’t seen a dog. Is there a dog?
“Wow,” I say when I look up. “You have a legitimate problem.”
He lets out a self-conscious laugh, a faint flush spreading across his face. It’s unexpectedly adorable from a guy who looks like he could bench-press a pickup truck. He yanks the phone out of my hand and slaps it down on the counter.
“Don’t I pay you to work?”
“This is work.” I tap my index finger on the list still open on his phone. “Shame is a powerful motivator not to do stupid shit.”
He doesn’t get offended or annoyed. He doesn’t pout or look at me like I’m crossing a line either.
Instead, he laughs.
“I think you and I might get along just fine, Indy,” he says.
Yeah.
That’s what I’m beginning to fear, too.