Grace (The ‘Hello’ series)

3. Chapter 3

three

Grace

T he next day, I wait patiently in a corner booth of a diner close to my apartment. The cooks yell to each other as forks scrape across plates. The place looks like it’s been around from the fifties with plenty of wear and tear on the walls, the booths, and the floor. The air is heavy with the scents of bacon and cooking oil. I take a sip from my coffee and clutch it tighter, almost ready to leave.

“Are you Grace?” a girl says as she approaches my table. Her dark hair is tightly pulled back. But the piercings on her lip, nose, and ears make me stare before my gaze drops, trailing over the tattoos racing up and down her arms.

I nod, and she sits down. She rubs the back of her neck. “I’m Ashley. I brought proof I’m employed and my recent numbers. I’m a tattoo artist, but I definitely need a place, and your apartment is close enough to work.”

I blink a few times at the folder she gives me. It’s an old Lisa Frank style one, bright with color and girlish fun. I open it, see her reports, see a list of her last landlords, her credit score, everything.

“I can also pay two months up front. Since I’m living with you, I also expect to pay half of the bills and you know, we won’t eat each other’s food, we’ll talk if we’re going to bring a stranger over, things like that,” she says with a shrug.

“Um, the amount I quoted is with my current bills. Water, power, internet. I have renter’s insurance and you can get it too,” I murmur.

“Even better. I might add to some costs, so if they change, I’ll pitch in,” she says clearly.

“Okay. Everything looks good,” I say, mostly because I have no idea what I’m looking for. “Do you want to see the place?” I ask cautiously.

She nods eagerly. I pay for my coffee, and we walk back to my apartment. She isn’t bothered that we’re on the second floor, thankfully. I turn the key in the door as I speak. “I’m kind of a minimalist, but feel free to add anything you need to be comfortable.”

“Cool,” she answers breezily. “I like some style, but it’s not like I have friends over every week or anything.”

“You can if you want to,” I say.

Once the door opens, I sweep my hand over the small living room separated from the kitchen with a bar-like counter. Everything is small but definitely manageable for two people. Plus, we have a terrace off the elongated living room which is especially nice in fall.

Sebastian took most of the furniture, so there’s an old couch in the living room and a small T.V. on top of a half-filled bookshelf.

“You weren’t kidding when you said you’re a minimalist,” she says with a laugh.

“Yeah, I know it’s a bit empty,” I say and open the door to the empty bedroom. It’s the bigger one of the two with a whole lot of space. The light tan carpet matches the white walls, and I made sure it was scrubbed to perfection.

“It’s a good foundation. I might change some things, put up wallpaper and all that, but I’ll change it back and make sure there are no damages,” she says with her hands on her hips.

I shrug. “No problem at all. If you’re living here, you should feel comfortable,” I agree.

“Cool.” She nods again, but her eyes are unfocused, like she’s already planning what she’s going to do. “It’ll be nice coming home and knowing someone is here, you know?”

“Yeah,” I admit shyly, unable to hide my smile.

“Well, I’m happy with this, and if you’re happy with me, then we’re set to get started! I don’t have a whole lot, just one or two U-Haul trips,” she says quickly.

“I can help,” I offer.

“Nah, the guys from the shop owe me,” she assures. “Just kick back and relax. We can decide what works and doesn’t, or we can unpack together with pizza and beer and get to know each other!”

A smile tugs. “That sounds great. I’ll stay out of the way for now,” I say.

As she bounces out of the apartment, already on her phone, the realization hits. I have a new roommate.

I stretch on my couch in the living room. She wasn’t bothered that none of the furniture really matches or that I don’t have much. She seems bubbly, but with a good understanding of boundaries, so I think we’ll be a good match.

Which is good because based on Ms. Castain, I’m not sure if I’m going to last another week. Even when I do something that another colleague, Melissa, on our team says looks perfect, there’s always something wrong.

I have a feeling I’ll be fired and looking for a new job soon. I’m almost tempted to send out my resume. I can’t handle another loss right now. I just need some stability.

After a few deep breaths, I open the sliding glass window to the terrace and any other window I can find to let some fresh air in, hoping it will give me some clarity.

With a heavy coffee run in mind, I went with slacks and flats this Monday morning. But it seems I was wrong as I don’t hear Ms. Castain’s voice at all, and she’s hard to miss.

I barely have time to sit down and sign in before a shadow towers over me. I hesitate to look up as a masculine, woodsy scent drifts my way and goosebumps raise over my arms.

“Grace,” a low, warm voice says. “I’d like you to come into my office, please.”

I gulp. “Yes, sir,” I whisper.

When the shadow moves, I get up and see Mr. Brooks waiting at his office door, his intense, blue eyes on me.

I’m going to get fired. That’s what this is. I’m sure of it. He’s going to fire me because of everything he’s overheard. I can’t imagine what Ms. Castain has said to him about me already.

The door shuts behind me, and my heartbeat picks up. My gaze skims over the light gray walls that are filled with certificates, pictures of him and what I can only guess business associates. A floor-to ceiling bookshelf takes up the wall on my right and the mahogany desk is in the center of the room. Windows fill the space behind it, and the view of the city takes my breath.

His big frame stalks around me, and he points to one of the smaller chairs in front of his desk as he moves around it and takes his seat, the leather groaning beneath his form as I cautiously slide into my chair.

Lacing my fingers, I squirm uncomfortably, wondering if Sebastian got his temper from his dad.

Am I going to lose my streak of not crying in public?

Mr. Brooks puts his hands on his desk, glances at his computer with evident annoyance, then his gaze focuses on me. “Stacy has called out sick today.”

“Oh,” I breathe, and a slight bit of tension fades in my shoulders.

“Which means I need an assistant,” he says, eyes focusing on me.

“Well, I don’t know if—”

“She clearly doesn’t see your value, based on how she speaks to you, despite turning in exactly what you send to her,” he says in a calm, kind tone.

I blink, unsure what to make of his words. I take a breath and play with my fingers in my lap. “She wouldn’t lie about how long it’s taking me to catch on.”

He huffs. “The reports she has you do are the reports I gave her to do. If you’re already doing that, organizing emails and so on, then there’s no reason you can’t step up today and be my assistant directly,” he continues.

My throat tightens as my nerves crawl under my skin, but I manage to finally look at him. His eyes soften and he clears his throat. “I also understand you have a background in I.T., so I’d like you to take a look at my computer. It keeps giving me a black screen, and when I try to do anything online with my email up, I’m told I’m out of memory. Can you take care of that while I go to a meeting?”

I nod stiffly, and he tilts his head slightly. “Words,” he adds.

“Yes, sir,” I say softly.

A slight move on the corner of his lips almost makes it seem like he’s fighting a smile. “Do whatever you think is best. I trust you to do it without needing anyone else, and if you see anything sensitive, I trust you not to share it,” he says.

I shake my head. “I won’t share anything,” I say, still surprised he’s giving me this opportunity.

He stands, taps the top of one of his two computer screens, and nods to me. “When you finish that, take a break if I’m not back. I’ll want you at other meetings today, so ensure you get both of your fifteen-minute breaks whenever you’re able.”

I almost ask if I need his permission or if I need to wait until they’re scheduled, like Ms. Castain—Stacy—hasn’t failed to remind me, but instead, he walks out with a tablet in his hand, leaving me to do my work. I slide around the desk to his computer and crack my knuckles.

My heart stammers and my hands are a bit sweaty. My gaze glides over the screen, and a smile tugs on my lips. “I’ll prove my worth. I’ll keep my job,” I whisper to myself.

I’m not entirely sure I believe what he said about Stacy. She never picks at other people’s work like mine. She doesn’t raise her voice at other people or chastise them. It means that I’m the problem, I’m the one doing something wrong.

As I clean up his computer, moving some files to a separate hard-drive I see that he has plugged in and take a note of it, I also run a check for any updates, out of date programs, duplicate programs, and so on.

My heartbeat steadies and so does my breathing. The nerves slowly fade, and I grab a Post-It and address the memory issue.

I go in to clear the browser history, and I can tell he’s never done it. Shaking my head, I clear it, making sure that he has his sign-in information saved, then I close the browser, make sure everything he’s working on is saved, and restart the computer.

He left his sign-in information, so I get him back in place, reopen the documents he’s been working on, open the browser, and restore all the tabs.

And that’s when I see it.

I don’t know how I missed it the first time around.

My eyes flick to the door and the few windows from his private office to the rest of the floor before I check the volume on the computer. I can’t resist the temptation to click the tab I see open on his browser, even though I shouldn’t.

There’s no reason for me to click it. It’s not professional and it doesn’t have anything to do with his computer troubles, but I hover the mouse over the partial phrase petite redh …

My finger lifts to click, but I pause. “It’s just to make sure it’s not a site that will give him viruses. That’s all. It’s just to make sure his computer is healthy. It’s just… necessary.”

With that, I click on the tab. Petite. Redhead. Porn. Oh, my God, it’s all porn.

Of course, the guys with these girls are much larger than the girls. In half of the image clips, the guys have the girls fully picked up. They’re naked or barely clothed. Sometimes, the girl is flipped upside down and they’re doing oral to each other at the same time. In others, it’s sex. In all of them, the dicks on these guys look too big to fit.

My nipples harden against my shirt and my thighs squeeze together.

“Oh, my God,” I breathe as heat swirls in my stomach.

My lips dry as I squirm on his chair. My body pulses, and I can’t believe I’m feeling something I never felt with my ex. How can this be what I’m into?

Shaking my head, erasing the bad thoughts, I quickly close the tab, stand up, and almost run out of his office.

No one else in the office is a redhead. But that doesn’t mean… why is my mind taking me there? That’s ridiculous. He’s my ex’s dad. I shouldn’t even think about him in any other way. Even if we didn’t meet formally like Sebastian met my family, that doesn’t mean that Mr. Brooks doesn’t know I dated his son.

Maybe it’s just… it’s just a fetish or something. Or maybe other porn got boring. But why does it get to me? How does it make something stir deep inside me? Why can’t I scrub the image from my mind, and why do I feel hot all over, wanting to go back into his office, restore the window, and see what’s so appealing about petite redheads?