My boss and me E-Book

Weber Amandine

• Herausgeber: Sudarènes Éditions - INT
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 888

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Emma has a passionate relationship with her job — and with her boss! How will it all end?

If you looked at my life from the outside, you'd probably think I have everything to be happy. And no, I'm not bragging (well, maybe a little… but that’s not the point!). The thing is, I’m pretty, young, super smart (and sarcastic as hell!), I have a lovely family and friends I adore… And I work for the great, magnificent, and charismatic Jonathan Beresford.

My boss, that a****** (yes, I self-censor — my mother says swearing is not ladylike!) of an arrogant playboy and… who knows what else, but he totally is! That jerk makes my life miserable. He constantly throws me into impossible situations, and the worst part is — he doesn’t even realize it. I’ve been working for him for three years, and I have no idea why I’m still here. I barely sleep, work like crazy, I’m addicted to coffee, and I hate Beresford when I’m not worshiping his brilliance.
Okay, I admit it. I’m hooked on my job.
I’m a lost cause.
Modern romance, emotional chaos, irreverent humor… follow the spicy adventures of an independent and unhinged heroine in the world of finance!

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY
"Honestly, this book should be covered by social security. It’s a pure dose of good humor." – Lil Fantasy, Tsilla's Univers
"A refreshing book with a lovely romance and lots of humor. Totally addictive." – Marieolivier66, Booknode
"A slightly crazy romantic comedy that I absolutely recommend." – Mag13, Babelio



ABOUT THE AUTHOR



Amandine Weber was born in 1991 in the Paris region. Passionate about writing since the age of 14, after a sports accident, she published her first novel before finishing high school. She combines her love of romance with a unique sensitivity. She currently lives in Bordeaux with her family and her Dogue de Bordeaux.

Leseprobe

Cover

Title page

To us, women of character, who still believe in true love!

Prologue or How It All Began

Emma looked at the businessman in his tailored suit standing before her with a puzzled expression.

“You know I’m studying at Yale, right?”

“Yes,” he replied with a serene smile, his hands clasped under his chin.

“You’re aware that I didn’t just spend a hundred and twenty thousand dollars on my education to end up as a secretary, even for someone like Jonathan Beresford?”

“I figured as much.”

“Then I really don’t understand why you’re making me this offer,” she sighed.

“Miss Adams, what do you know about Jonathan?”

“Mr. Beresford?” the Yale student asked, surprised. “Well, what the newspapers say about him...”

“Then let me give you a few more details. Jonathan has been my best friend for years now, and I know him well. He’s ­brilliant, sure, a playboy without a doubt... but he’s also as disorganized as they come. He’s incapable of trusting people, and I think that’s one of the reasons he sleeps with his ­secretaries instead of entrusting them with responsibilities.”

“But why me?”

“Because you’re probably, or at least, as brilliant as he is.”

“Oh no, sir, I don’t have his genius. I didn’t graduate from MIT at eighteen. Nor made my first million at nineteen.”

“You have your own kind of genius, from what I’ve ­gathered. I’ve been searching for a woman like you, for months now, to become Jonathan’s right hand.”

“So you want me to be your friend’s shadow tutor.”

Tom Walker rolled his eyes with a grimace.

“Mmh, no, it’s more complicated than that.”

The young woman, barely twenty-two, raised her eyebrows, leaned back in her chair, and fixed her sea-green eyes on her potential future employer. Clearly, she was waiting for an explanation, and Tom smiled before providing one.

“We founded BTW Corporation at the end of our years at Harvard, seven years ago now. The company has been listed on Wall Street for three years. I own a certain percentage, but ­Jonathan is by far the majority shareholder, holding fifty-five percent of the shares. He didn’t want his vision to be overruled by the board of directors. As for me, I’m only along for the ride because he needed someone to manage things while he was creating.”

It was true that Jonathan Beresford had been making ­headlines for the past ten years. Brilliant and charismatic, he had it all: money, genius, and women. BTW Corp. was a high-tech company that didn’t produce computers, cars, televisions, or anything of the sort, yet every company manufacturing ­electronic devices relied on them. Their micro-technology was among the most innovative, and no one could do anything without Beresford’s inventions. Rumor even had it that he had found a way to store electricity in large quantities. Despite all this, the twenty-eight-year-old was also notorious for his ­escapades with women.

“Look, I know I’m asking a lot of from you... but with his antics, the company is already in crisis. Someone needs to manage him. Let him be the creator while a woman is behind the scenes handling everything and running the show.”

“So ultimately, if I accept, I’ll still be doing management work.”

“Absolutely. You’ll be running BTW Corp., at least ­unofficially.”

Emma turned her attention to the world outside. Her world. However, she only had a few months left at Yale. Final exams were approaching. Soon, she would return to Los Angeles. Home. And she would need a job. Why not take this one? At least to start. But she needed to secure every possible ­advantage.

“Will you pay off my student loan?”

Tom squinted.

“Yes. That’s part of the deal.”

“Salary?”

“With the confidentiality clause, fifty thousand dollars a year, not including bonuses.”

“Health insurance?”

“The company’s plan, full medical coverage.”

“Will he know?”

“Of course not. You’ll have to be discreet.”

“Even better,” she smiled.

“We won’t speak again, or very little. He mustn’t know we made this agreement, and I never interfere in his work, which would actually mean yours.”

The young woman nodded solemnly.

“Two months’ trial period. You’ll start the week after your graduation.”

“What makes you so sure I’ll graduate?”

He smiled. She was the top of her class by far since her arrival; he knew she would graduate. It was practically a done deal.

“So?” he finally asked. He stood, buttoned his gray Hugo Boss jacket, and extended his hand to her. “Do you accept?” Emma looked at the outstretched hand for a second, grimaced, then stood as well. She shook his hand and nodded.

“I’m in.”

Chapter 1

May or a Well-Rehearsed Routine

Tuesday, May 15, at an hour so indecently early it still feels like the middle of the night

I’m jolted awake by my magnificent phone, which sits smugly on my nightstand, mocking me.

I’m sprawled across the scandalously luxurious hotel bed I’ve been occupying for the past two days. Face down, wearing nothing but underwear and an oversized, shapeless T-shirt, I’m pretty sure I drooled in my sleep. But hey, allowances must be made when you work for Jonathan Beresford. It’s been three years. Three years. Three years I’ve been putting up with this man. Why, oh why, did I accept Tom Walker’s proposal? I hate him! And I hate my boss. I hate my job.

Actually, I hate my life.

It’s still dark outside. The curtains are drawn, but given that I set my alarm for 5:30 a.m., I doubt the sun is any more eager to rise than I am.

How can such thoughts cross my mind when I’ve barely turned off my alarm?

My brain never ceases to amaze me.

A good half-hour later, I’m finally in the shower. A long, loooooooooooooong shower.

Still half-asleep, I step out, dry my hair, style it, apply makeup, and get dressed. Soon enough, I’ve transformed back into the perfect secretary.

With a sigh, I glance at myself in the mirror, I finish packing my things, and place my suitcase and laptop bag on the bed for the bellhops to collect. There are perks to working for one of the richest men in the world, after all.

Mentally bracing myself for the verbal sparring match that’s sure to come, I leave my room with just my handbag, clutching my phone tightly in my hand.

Across the hall, I knock softly on the door and wait.

Thirty seconds later, I knock again.

Oh, I’m used to this. I’ve got little Beresford all figured out by now. I probably know him better than his own mother. Poor woman, she must’ve had a hell of a time raising him lived gone through hell.

After two or three minutes of this game, I give up and call him on my phone. The first time, he outright hangs up on me. The second and third times, he simply ignores me.

I really, truly hate this man.

In a moment of desperation — and thanks to my habit of planning ahead — I pull out the spare key card I managed to charm from the front desk. I know it’s wrong, but I don’t have a choice. I step inside. To my surprise, he’s alone. Usually, there’s a girl in his bed. And more often than not, I’m the one who has to send them packing… this guy is insane!

Without sparing a glance at the human wreckage that is my boss, sprawled across the bed, I open the curtains and turn on the lights. I check the room for any suspicious substances — drugs, alcohol, vomit — but there’s nothing. A surprisingly tame night for our national treasure, Beresford! Finally, I sit on the edge of the bed and place my hand on his chest to wake him. Thankfully, this man is not like me; he wakes up quickly and easily, even with a raging hangover—which seems to be the case today.

Time for the second battle of the day (the first being ­dragging myself out of bed).

“Mr. Beresford? It’s time to get up. It’s quarter to seven.”

“Mmmhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” he groans, not moving a muscle.

This is going to be fun.

“We need to leave in less than an hour for the airport… Sir!”

“Adams,” he finally sighs, without opening his eyes. “The plane will wait… it’s my private jet; they won’t leave without me.”

A perfectly accurate statement that never fails to irritate me. But of course, I say nothing.

I think he might be the only person in the universe immune to my arrogance, my lack of tact, and my biting humor, which usually requires interpretation of the fifteenth degree… well, most of the time. Then again, he’s probably the most manipulated person in the world, so I suppose it balances out.

The day he realizes I’m… everything, he’d probably kill me.

Seriously though (I know, not the best expression), the guy is brilliant but just a little bit clueless.

“Sir, we need to get back… your parents’ wedding anniversary dinner is tonight.”

He sighs, rolls over, and rubs his fists against his eyes, grimacing. I can barely suppress a laugh.

“Adams, get out.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me perfectly well.”

“You need to get ready!”

“I heard you! Fine, I’m awake! I’ll get ready… but leave me alone! Go make your calls, bother the rest of the hotel if you want, fetch me a coffee if it gives you something to do you, but get out of my room.”

It’s official: I hate my boss.

I stand, annoyed, but try to maintain a neutral expression.

“Fine. I’ll be waiting downstairs for breakfast.”

“Sure.”

“I’m not joking. We’re leaving in an hour.”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard you.”

I give him a suspicious look before heading out.

“Don’t fall back asleep!”

And I slam the door.

Not great for the neighbors, but oh-so-satisfying for my nerves.

I need coffee.

The sound of my fingers tapping on the keyboard is driving me insane. Yes, I’m the one typing my report, and yes, I’m the one making the noise, but I can’t stand it right now. A migraine has been building for nearly an hour, and I’m at my limit. With a desperate sigh, I lean back in my seat on the plane, where I’ve been stuck for four hours now. I take off my glasses and toss them onto the table beside my laptop… okay, I throw them without much care.

Two hours behind schedule… the plane was supposed to leave New York at nine a.m. Oh, I knew perfectly well we’d never leave at that time, so I adjusted the schedule to ten without Beresford knowing, as I always do. But this morning, he outdid himself. We didn’t leave until noon. This guy is ­hopeless. No wonder he can’t hold onto a girlfriend… then again, with his charisma and money, why would he settle for just one woman when he has the entire female population at his feet?

“Can I get you something?”

I flinch and open my eyes. Madison, the flight attendant, leans toward me. Like me, she’s learned to be discreet around our boss. Sometimes—often—the man is a handful.

“Yes, please, find me an aspirin…”

She smiles sympathetically. She knows better than anyone what it’s like to work for Beresford.

“And Mr. Beresford?” she asks, lowering her voice even further.

I lean to look past her at my boss. He’s deep in ­conversation on the phone, speaking Japanese—a language I don’t understand—but his gestures and tone betray deep irritation. It can only be his best frenemy, his competitor and ally, the ­formidable Fukashaki. I look at the time; we’ve got about two more hours of flight left… yeah, this is going to be tricky. Best to calm him down now.

“Get him a Black Jack… not too sweet.”

Madison grimaces, but I don’t bother trying to understand why and let her walk away. What better way to earn the boss’s favor than with his favorite cocktail? I close my eyes again.

The next two hours are going to be very long. And I still need to finish my report.

Madison brings us our drinks just as Beresford startles me by slamming his phone down violently. Poor phone. He tosses it onto the table in frustration before sitting across from me.

Well, looks like we’ll need to buy a new one. A new record—this one lasted three months.

Jaw clenched, hand covering his mouth, his piercing blue eyes burn with anger as he glares at the clouds outside.

After three years, I’ve had plenty of time to get used to his… unique personality. I can now interpret every one of his expressions, and I think there’s nothing about him I don’t know. So I wait patiently for him to calm down because there’s nothing else I can do. I think he might be the only person in the world with a worse temper than mine. And for that alone, I tip my hat to him, because I’m quite a handful myself. Is that why he tolerates me so well? Hmm, something to ponder.

Madison finally sets our drinks down—his cocktail first, then my aspirin with a glass of water—before retreating silently. Beresford now has a faint smile playing on his lips as he eyes the drink.

“As always, Adams, I wonder what I’d do without you.”

Not much, I’d wager… but I simply smile at him before taking a sip of cool water along with the lifesaving pill.

“When do we land?” he asks.

I sigh discreetly. Can’t he just check his phone for the time? But I answer softly nonetheless:

“In about an hour and forty minutes.”

Sometimes I wonder why I don’t put him in his place.

“Good. I’m tired of this.”

Oh right, he’s the one who signs my paychecks…

“Is Mr. Fukashaki still giving you a hard time?”

He shoots me a glare, which only makes me smile, amused. He takes a deep breath, realizing it doesn’t faze me in the slightest (I think it’s becoming a game between us), then mutters:

“Yes. He refuses to sell me part of the lithium deposit.”

“Why are you handling that? That’s Mr. Hudson’s job—or mine, at most…” I sigh. I’ve been sighing constantly since I met this man; it’s become a second nature… which probably isn’t a good sign for my mental health.

“Adams, you know I take this personally. Fukashaki is as much a collaborator as he is a rival, and he’s been aggravating me for years. One day, I’ll buy out his company, you’ll see.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I’ve been hearing the same thing for three years! If their little game amused me at first, the joke has long outlived its charm. Then again, given the complexity of the situation, I’m not unhappy to let Beresford handle it… for once!

Besides, even though I unofficially hold all the power, it’s all just a façade. I can’t afford to mess around.

Yeah, this whole situation is really bizarre.

“Have you finished the report from our New York ­conference?”

He sips his cocktail leisurely, and he dares to ask me that???

I’m going to kill him! No, seriously! His arrogance is ­infuriating! What does he think I’ve been doing since we left? I’m going to hit him, make him eat his words, make him—

Can I kill him and dispose of the body without anyone noticing? Hmm, unlikely upon reflection.

But one day, I’ll get my revenge. The day I sign my own paychecks… well, technically, I already transfer my own salary since I have access to all the accounts.

Mwahaha, I’m diabolical.

What was I thinking about again? I don’t remember… why is he looking at me like that anyway? Oh right, he’s waiting for an answer.

“I was just finishing it. It’ll be on your desk first thing tomorrow.” As if he ever doubted it! I always do things ­properly and exactly the way he wants. Even if he doesn’t know it. I see him study me for a moment before finishing his drink and losing himself in the contemplation of the clouds.

“Tell me, don’t I have something today? I feel like I’m forgetting something…” he grimaces, and I can sense his ­irritation at the thought.

I don’t even bother opening his schedule; I simply nod, aware that this conversation will further delay the completion of my report. As if I didn’t have enough to do.

“You’re probably referring to your parents’ dinner.”

“Oh no,” he sighs.

He’s infuriating. Can’t he listen when I speak?! I can tell from his expression that he remembers now. It’s not like I haven’t mentioned it this morning… and yesterday… and before we left.

Nooooooooooo. Not at all.

“What time do I need to be there?”

“Dinner is scheduled for seven p.m.”

“And you’re not coming with me, I presume?”

I think my face reflects my irritation mixed with ­bewilderment.

“I’m your employee, not your wife. I handle what you need, but I have no business being at your parents’ house.”

“You’re insufferable when you’re right.”

A smile escapes me.

“Only when I’m right?”

Muttering something I don’t catch, he turns his attention back to the sky, so I put my glasses back on, determined to return to my infuriating report.

A few minutes before landing, the flight attendant asks us to fasten our seatbelts as the pilot announces the descent. He adds that the weather on the ground is clear, with an outside temperature of twenty degrees.

Considering it’s three p.m. local time on May 15, that’s not bad. Works for me!

Then again, I don’t have much say in the matter… even if it rains, there’s nothing I can do about it. Oh great, now I’m arguing with myself… I need to get back to normal people whose humor doesn’t only amuse themselves.

I’m truly insane.

“Your car is waiting on the tarmac,” I tell him as I pack up my things. “Sam will drive you home, where your tuxedo for tonight is ready for you. The gift for your parents’ anniversary is also there.”

Jonathan frowns.

“Tonight?”

“Yes. Mrs. Thompson didn’t want their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary to be at a restaurant, so she simply hired a caterer… the evening will be at your parents’ house.”

I know Beresford isn’t even surprised that I know so much… he’s used to it by now, and I think it even suits him (a lot). I know his family as well as I know my own.

“Will Tom be there?”

“Mr. Walker and his wife should be present with their daughter.”

Tom, Jonathan’s business partner, married for over five years, co-founder of BTW Corp, lives far from his family since he’s originally from Texas, but he’s never been particularly close to them… wow! I’m impressed with myself! Where did I learn all this? Probably from drunken confessions.

Besides, Jonathan’s family has become, over time, the family of his best friend and his wife Veronica, and now also their daughter Héloïse.

I’m a walking encyclopedia of this company anyway! No, but seriously, the life of Jonathan Beresford and company is nothing if not entertaining. I must admit, they’re endlessly amusing.

They’re my real-life soap opera.

The plane completes its descent smoothly.

To complete the picture, Esther and Cooper Thompson aren’t Jonathan’s biological parents but his aunt and uncle. But these people are admirable; I like them a lot… just as Mr. Beresford undoubtedly does. Following a tragic story, his biological parents died in a car accident when he was only five years old… a story I took over two years to uncover! In reality, I think Jonathan himself doesn’t know all the details, and it’s probably better that way… in a similar situation, I’d prefer not to know. Isn’t there a saying that ignorance is bliss? His aunt, the younger sister of Jonathan Beresford’s mother, took him in and officially adopted him the following year with her husband. Jonathan is grateful to them for everything they’ve done… I know this because they’re probably the only people he never lets down. He’s always late, sometimes reschedules, but he’s always there for his adoptive parents.

“Well, finally,” he sniffs as the plane finally lands. “It’s about time.”

He doesn’t see me roll my eyes as I follow him out of the plane. He puts on his sunglasses and stretches as Sam, the chauffeur, waits at the bottom of the steps.

“My good Sam, how are you?”

The towering, muscular chauffeur with an angelic smile and skin as dark as coal grins at his boss in greeting.

I adore this man; he always makes me laugh with his perpetual good humor.

“I’m doing perfectly well, sir, and I hope you had a pleasant flight.”

“Adams drove me crazy as usual, but what can you do, my friend, she’s a woman—you can’t expect too much from her…”

The two men laugh, and I sigh, exasperated. What nonsense do I have to put up with?!

While Beresford’s luggage is loaded into his car—a sleek black BMW Series 6 chosen for the boss’s comfort and ­discretion (otherwise, he drives one of his vintage cars or rolls out one of his three limousines—yes, three… but he’s a man, so I probably just don’t understand)—I finally approach my boss. After all, I have a job to do:

“Tomorrow morning, there’s a board meeting at nine, and you need to be there. Ideally, you should come to the office around eight, because…” Jonathan freezes and turns around, nearly bumping into me because I’m following so closely, then places his index finger on my lips to silence me.

I hate when he does that! But it works—I freeze and shut up. His finger feels scorching against my lips, and I shiver at his touch, which infuriates me to no end. I hate feeling my body betray me in the presence of a man, any man. It makes me feel… inferior.

And this man, oh my God! I hate him. Him and everything he stands for, but…

…but he’s a god among mortals.

Just for his intellect, I’d sell my soul!

“Adams,” he observes me over his Ray-Bans, just inches from my face, “you know perfectly well I won’t be on time tomorrow, especially after a dinner at my parents’ house. I’ll drink, nurse a magnificent hangover, and show up at best around eleven, which will make everyone furious… but they’ll all wait for me because they have no choice. So go handle your business, have some fun, and leave me alone. On that note, have a good evening, Miss Adams.”

Leaving me behind, he heads to his car and drives off for good, without a backward glance. I stand there for a few seconds, one eyebrow raised in bewilderment, and only react when my phone rings.

“Yes, Pamela?” I answer as I pick up.

Pamela Rodes. Mr. Beresford’s second secretary. His only secretary, really, since I do everything except secretarial work.

“Emma, please tell me you’re on your way!”

Her panicked tone doesn’t faze me in the slightest. I’ve grown used to it over the past year she’s been in her position. Poor Pamela isn’t particularly bright, but she has the merit of doing everything she’s asked for with a certain efficiency… which is more than what can be said of most people. After all, she does what’s expected of her without complaint and with diligence—there’s nothing more to ask for. Besides, she has a significant advantage in the boss’s eyes: he finds her very much to his liking and literally screws her regularly in his office without the slightest discretion. Then again, Beresford is never discreet. About anything. I think he just doesn’t care.

“What’s the matter now, Pamela?”

By default, Beresford’s second secretary has become my friend. Not my best friend, but I enjoy pleasant evenings in her company. The mornings after, however, are less enjoyable when I have to sober up.

“The lawyers are on edge; they’ve been hounding me since yesterday about the Brazil contract.”

“What Brazil contract?”

“The one to merge the company with Mr. Sehclir’s.”

“Oh, right… Well, tell them now’s not the time, that Mr. Beresford isn’t available at the moment, and neither is Mr. Walker… and by the way, why are they getting worked up about it now?”

Still on the tarmac, an airport staff member politely informs me it’s time to leave. Gathering my things, I smile at the airline employee, even though I’d rather throw my phone at his face, and resume my conversation as I head for the exit.

“You know what, never mind, I’m on my way… I’ll grab a taxi and be there in an hour.”

I quicken my pace, my heels clicking rhythmically against the ground. My day is far from over.

Friday, May 18, in the middle of the night

My phone rings... I HATE being woken up in the middle of the night. I don’t even open my eyes—it’s not worth it. I answer.

“What?”

“Well, Adams, I see you’re in a cheerful mood.”

I sigh. My boss... who else would be crazy enough to wake me up at this hour?

“I have every right to be cranky at this ungodly hour,” I hear myself reply.

Seriously, don’t wake me up. I hate being woken up. I loooooove sleep and my bed. It’s possessive... but I don’t care, I love it too... Can you marry your bed?

“Mmh, probably...”

“What do you want? So I can go back to sleep.”

“Heloise is in the hospital.”

Okay, now I’m wide awake.

“WHAT?” I scream.

“I thought you’d want to know.”

“Where are you?”

“Still at home. I’m heading to the hospital.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“Oh, and sir?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now hurry up.”

Heloise, that little four-year-old princess! No! What happened? I think I’ve never gotten ready so fast in my life. Jeans, t-shirt... not exactly the perfect secretary look. But I don’t have time for that right now!

As I’m about to leave the room, I glance at my bed and sigh. I can’t show up looking like this. It would completely change the way my boss sees me, and I can’t afford that. So I mutter a completely vulgar and utterly unnecessary curse, but it feels good, and I go back to put on a suit.

I annoy myself with my obsession for perfection.

I drive quickly through the streets of Los Angeles... the little one must have been taken to Memorial, that’s where the best doctors are. But I still call my boss to confirm. He confirms. Phew!

What’s wrong with the little one? Why take her to the hospital at four in the morning?

I see Heloise regularly; I’ve even picked her up from school a few times. The first time, Tom Walker—her father—was very embarrassed to ask me for this favor, but he trusted me more than his secretary for this kind of task. It’s not normally part of my job description, but then again... what is? Anyway, I was touched by his distress and trust, and I don’t regret it. Tom and Veronica have an adorable child. I also know Tom’s wife well. That woman is... crazy. But oh, how entertaining! She must be hyperactive because she’s always bouncing around and moving. But her good mood is contagious. I adore that little ball of energy. She often stops by the office to greet her husband and then Beresford, whom she considers a sort of brother. It’s amusing to see my boss’s reactions. He never says no to her for long. Veronica is a fairy with a tinkling laugh.

The poor woman must be beside herself. If her love for her husband is unconditional—I was properly jealous of them at first—I know they love their daughter more than anything else. They’ll need support, even if it’s just a cold. I call the only person who can help me, who can help them.

Yes, at this moment, in the middle of the night, I’m not feeling confident, and all my sarcasm has deserted me. I’m not joking at all when the people I care about are in trouble.

One ring, then two.

She doesn’t answer. I call again. She picks up after two rings.

“Emma,” I hear her say, “I hope you have a good excuse for waking me up in the middle of my shift when...”

“Jenny, little Heloise, you remember her? She’s in the hospital.”

“Here?” she asks, surprised and now fully awake.

I can hear her getting up.

“Yes. Mr. Beresford called me.”

“Damn, I’ll check it out right away. But you know, if they didn’t wake me, it’s probably because...” she starts to reassure me.

I then hear a door open on her end and a man’s voice speaking to my best friend. I feel like my heart is about to explode.

“What? What? I didn’t hear what he said!”

I think I’m on the verge of apoplexy. Well, at least I’m on my way to the hospital—that’s a good thing. What am I even saying? My head’s not in the right place!

“A four-year-old girl just arrived; she has meningitis...”

“And that’s bad, right?”

I may not be a doctor, but I know that’s not good.

“Don’t worry, I’ll check on her. From what I know, her parents aren’t reckless... they must have brought her in at the first signs. She’ll be fine.”

“Yes, you’re right...”

This girl has a knack for calming me down... I adore her! I instantly feel more at ease.

“How long until you’re here?”

I glance at the speedometer and press the accelerator.

“Let’s say five minutes.”

I can picture her rolling her eyes.

“Alright. See you soon.”

“Thanks again, Jenny.”

We hang up.

About six and a half minutes later, I burst into the hospital’s emergency room—gracefully, of course—which is practically empty. Well, thank goodness!

I quickly scan the area and spot Tom Walker; Mrs. Thompson is already there, and I assume her husband must be with the ER doctors... it’s not really his job since he’s just one of the top neurosurgeons on the West Coast, but still... unless Heloise cracked her skull open?

No, no, no, I mustn’t let my overactive imagination run wild... I’ll have my answer soon enough anyway.

I approach them with a quick, confident stride, and they both look up at me simultaneously. I see Tom relax slightly, as if my presence means everything will be okay.

Well, it’s true that, generally, when I get involved, things tend to go the way I want them to.

But aside from that, I’m not stubborn.

Nooooooooooooooooooooooo.

“Good evening... or rather, good morning,” I say, a bit ­uncertain. “Mr. Beresford called me, and I took the liberty of coming.”

Mrs. Thompson smiles at me, the way my mother would. This woman is an angel of kindness. How can someone be so nice? She’s always intimidated me slightly because of it. Not to mention she’s a stunningly beautiful woman with incredible grace and poise. I always have the unpleasant feeling of being a scruffy little girl next to her.

“You did the right thing, Miss Adams.”

I smile at her and turn to Tom, who nods.

“Veronica is with Heloise, but I couldn’t go in... only the mother is allowed, to reassure her.”

“What stage is the meningitis at?”

Two surprised looks land on me, but I don’t pay them any mind.

“She’s just dehydrated. Yesterday, she had a fever and was vomiting all day. The doctor said it was just a stomach bug.”

I frown.

“What’s the name of that idiot so we can have him struck off the medical board? Even I know it’s not stomach bug season.”

That at least manages to lighten the mood a bit for my second boss. Just as Mr. Beresford walks in, dressed in perfectly fitting blue jeans and a black shirt that suits him just as well, his perpetually unruly hair somewhere between chestnut and brown, and his blue eyes—somewhere between topaz and apatite—land on me. I nod, and he closes his eyes for a second. I know he wanted to know if the situation was desperate. I’ve reassured him. After all, that’s my job, isn’t it?

An ER intern approaches us, and I smile at her. Jennifer acknowledges me before turning to the rest of little Heloise’s rather disparate family.

“Mr. Walker?” she calls, even though she already knows perfectly well who he is because she recognized Mr. Beresford.

He steps toward her, inquisitive.

“How is my daughter?”

“Much better, sir. I’m here to take you to join your wife. Dr. Thompson has found her a room, and we’re going to transfer her there. The IV has done its job, and Heloise should be able to go home in a few days. We’re keeping her as a precaution, but everything should be fine now.”

“Thank you.”

Jenny gestures for me to follow her as well. I feel the surprised looks from the others as I trail behind my best friend with Mr. Walker. But he stays slightly behind Jenny, and I ­position myself at his side.

“She’s really okay?”

“Yes, don’t worry.”

“I’m relieved.”

“I know, sweetheart. The little one will be transferred to room 1099.”

“Why...”

“Tomorrow at noon, let’s have lunch together?”

“If you want...”

“But if you can’t, I’d understand that...”

“Of course not,” I laugh. “Calm down, Jenny. I’ll come. We’ll go to our little restaurant!”

Her eyes light up.

We’ve been friends since elementary school. And I think we’ve always known what we wanted to do with our lives. Our childhood dreams became more pragmatic, but we never changed our minds. Well, actually, to be precise, I wanted to be a ballerina when I was little... but my mom put me in karate... not quite the same thing! And I read the book Love Story... and the idea of meeting a Preppy amused me, so I had to get into the Ivy League. Well, none of that really matters in the end. What I’ll never regret is that we’re together. Jenny and me.

Later in the day, I’m at my desk at the company ­headquarters, and my eyes are closing on their own. Coffee, I need coffee. I press the phone next to my computer and pick up.

“Yes?” Pamela answers, her voice smiling.

“Would you be an angel and bring me a coffee, please?”

“Any news about Mr. Walker’s daughter?”

How does everyone already know? I have no idea, but everyone knew as soon as I arrived two hours ago.

“No, so everything must be fine.”

“I’ll bring it right away.”

“Thanks, Pam.”

I hang up. Yessssss, real coffee!

Real coffee that she brings me just a few minutes later, along with a chocolate chip muffin. God, this girl is a gem!

“You’ve just become my new best friend!” I say reverently. “I’m starving, actually.”

She laughs; I think she’s mocking me.

“I don’t think Jenny and Joyce would agree.”

Pfft, if she takes everything I say literally...

In the middle of the afternoon, Beresford walks into my office. Huh, since when is he here? Leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, he’s watching me.

“Yes?”

“Come on, we’re leaving.”

I raise a perplexed eyebrow.

“Where to?”

He bursts out laughing.

“I have no idea, but we’re leaving.”

The idiot.

“Sir, I have work, you have work...”

“Adams, you’re annoying me. Get up and grab your things. You’re not coming back here until Monday morning.”

I sigh, again. When he’s like this, there’s nothing I can do. I look up and meet his eyes. I quickly gather my things and follow him. When I finally step out, he claps his hands, a big smile on his face.

“Well, finally!”

“Seriously, sir, where are we going?”

He throws me a brief glance before stepping outside. The car is waiting out front. Sam gets out, and I smile at him as he hands the keys to my boss. Ah, today it’s the Lykan from Wolf Motors. I love that car, even if it’s hyper-masculine; driving it is a pleasure. Yes, I had the joy of driving it one night when he was drunk to the point of passing out. Otherwise, of course, he’d never have let me near it. A little gem worth nearly five million dollars, after all...

“Sam, take Adams’ things to my place with her car. She can go straight home afterward.”

What kind of trap is this now?

Sam turns to me and waits for me to hand over my things. I think I sigh for the thousandth time today, throw a glance at my boss, who’s starting to get impatient, and do as he expects. I hand Sam my things—my bag with my laptop and some important papers, as well as my car keys—with a contrite expression.

“Thank you, miss.”

“Have a good afternoon, Sam, and thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Sir, is there anything else I can do?”

“No, thank you. Let’s go, Adams,” he says, motioning toward the car.

And he opens the passenger door for me to get in. I’m momentarily stunned; Beresford’s gentlemanly manners toward me never fail to surprise me. I’m so used to him either treating me as an equal or completely ignoring me that this kind of attention catches me off guard.

I sit down, and he closes the door before getting behind the wheel. He starts the car quickly and soon drives smoothly through the streets of Los Angeles.

“Alright, now will you tell me where we’re going?”

He gives me a bored look and sighs in turn. Ah, his turn now.

“I wanted to buy a gift for Heloise.”

“Excuse me?” I ask, surprised.

“Yes...”

He suddenly seems uncertain and uncomfortable. Seriously?!

“...she’s sick, and she’s my goddaughter. I care about her a lot, and it must not be fun to stay in the hospital...”

He stops and glances at me before focusing back on the road. I must admit I’m shamelessly staring at him, so surprised that my mouth is probably hanging open.

“It’s not a bad idea, is it?” he finally mumbles.

I snap back to my senses. This man never ceases to amaze me. And to think I believe I know him inside out. Such ­arrogance on my part. He still manages to be unpredictable.

Maybe he’s bipolar.

“On the contrary, it’s an excellent idea.”

This time, he looks at me in surprise.

“Really?”

“Of course. Heloise will love it. But why did you insist on me coming along?”

This time, he looks genuinely surprised and almost... offended.

“Who else could I ask for help? You’re always there.” Well, when you put it like that...

A little later, we’re in a large toy store, where I had the ­brilliant idea of letting a six-year-old boy in adult form with an unlimited credit card loose.

I really need to learn to think things through.

Beresford is darting around, moving from one aisle to another, from one toy to the next, stars in his eyes—or muttering criticisms about the quality or something. I gave up about ten minutes ago and am just standing in the middle of the store, keeping an eye on him from a distance, my phone in hand to stay connected to reality—which seems rather ­paradoxical, actually. A salesperson approaches me, looking concerned.

“Can I help you with anything, ma’am?”

I tear my gaze away from Beresford, who’s in the video game section (men, they’re all the same!), holding about ten boxes.

I see in the salesperson’s eyes that he knows who ­Beresford is. He probably doesn’t know me, but he’s figured out that I’m... the nanny.

“Hello, no, I don’t think so for now. But don’t worry; I have a feeling he’s about to make your quarterly sales target.”

The salesperson gives me a tight smile before walking away, not without glancing back at my boss.

I sigh. Yeah, I’m not getting out of here anytime soon.

“Adams!”

I jump; I didn’t see him coming.

“Yes?” I sigh.

I really need to break this habit of sighing.

“Do you think she’ll like this?”

And he shows me a selection of games, most of which are rated for ages 18 and up. I slap my forehead with the palm of my hand.

Please tell me he’s not serious?!

“You’re joking, right?”

“Well... no, why?”

“Mr. Beresford,” I say in a voice that I feel is slightly scolding. “Heloise is a GIRL, and she’s FOUR years old. If you want to traumatize her for life, sure, go ahead and get her these... otherwise, maybe start by looking in the girls’ section, or better yet, let’s ask a salesperson for advice.”

He gives me a disappointed pout.

“Well, then I’ll just get them for myself.”

I discreetly roll my eyes. Oy. It’s probably a good thing he’s not married, after all. I’d likely have less work, but she’d have already filed for divorce... yeah, it’s a toss-up, really.

“So what should I get?”

With a sigh that conveys my despair and frustration, I motion for him to follow me as I lead him to a more ­appropriate section of the store for Heloise. And eventually, we leave with a Barbie doll—as I advised—and an enormous pink dollhouse, which is admittedly stunning.

I know one little girl who’s going to be thrilled, and two parents who will be significantly less so.

Saturday, May 19, I don’t even know when in the middle of the night

My phone rings. Again. I think I’m really going to start turning it off at night… With clumsy movements, because I don’t open my eyes and it’s dark anyway, I tumble around trying to find my phone.

“Who is it now?”

“Emma.”

My eyes snap open instantly. Tears in her voice, real sadness, deep distress. Once again, sleep abandons me quickly.

“Joyce? What’s going on?”

“Could you… could you come pick me up, please?”

“Where are you? What happened?”

“I… I don’t know. I had a fight with Greg and… he hit me…”

Fury takes hold of me as I jump out of bed, hurriedly throwing on whatever clothes I can grab. I’ve always hated that guy. She’s been with him for two years, and from the moment I met him, I warned her it would end badly. But Joyce being Joyce, didn’t listen.

“Calm down, Joyce. I’m coming to get you. Look around and find the name of the street… or stop someone if you can, there’s always someone around…”

She’s still sobbing on the phone, but I can tell my voice is soothing her.

I nearly trip over myself as I stumble out of my room, pulling on my pants, and curse like a sailor when I bang my knee on the coffee table—my mother would have killed me if she heard!

“Joyce?”

“Yes, yes…”

Finally, after three or four minutes of waging war with myself, I leave the apartment I’ve lived in for three years, and hang up, now that I at least know where she is… well, ­technically. Thank goodness for GPS!

I punch in the address as I start the car quickly. Luckily, I’m a good driver (thanks, Mom, for those driving lessons when I was eighteen!). I’m furious! No one messes with my friends! Especially not my sweet Joyce.

Joyce is like a Barbie… without the clichés but with the perfection of a Disney princess. If she weren’t my friend, I’d probably hate her. That thought crosses my mind, despite my worry, as I find her sitting on a bench at a bus stop. And despite everything she’s been through, she’s… perfect. She’s crying, no doubt about it, but it’s not like me—her eyes aren’t red and puffy, her nose isn’t running. No, no, Joyce looks like a mermaid. Pale, tear-streaked skin. Sitting upright, fresh in her spring dress, even though she must be cold. Her voluminous, silky, wavy blonde hair falls perfectly down her back and over her chest, and her tear-filled blue eyes stand out even more than usual. She could make any model in the world jealous. I stop in front of her and lean over to open the car door.

“Get in,” I gently order.

She jumps slightly at the sound of my voice and looks up to see me. After a few seconds, as if regaining her composure, Joyce stands and gets into the car. I start driving as soon as she shuts the door.

“Are you okay?”

I use a soft voice. Joyce has that effect on me. She always disarms me. I can’t be angry or cynical with her; she’s too pure, too kind for that. It would feel like a betrayal. Joyce stares at the road for a long moment before sighing, realizing I’m ­genuinely waiting for an answer.

“Not really.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Judging by the bags under your eyes, you’re exhausted. Tomorrow…”

“Joyce,” I sigh.

She’s so annoying, always worrying about others before herself.

“Tomorrow, Emma.”

I swallow my frustration.

“At least tell me if we need to go to the hospital.”

She quickly turns her head toward me, and I can sense her shock.

“Why?”

“You said he hit you.”

“Yes… yes,” she stammers. “But it was just a slap. There’s no mark anymore… I left right away, before… it escalated.”

I take a deep breath. She did the right thing. I almost want to smile. I’m proud of my friend.

Since there’s only one bedroom in my apartment—the second one was turned into an office/gym that I never use—and there’s absolutely no way Joyce is sleeping on my couch, no matter how comfortable it is, she sleeps with me in my bed. I fall asleep without even realizing I’m, holding my friend’s hand in mine.

It’s true that this week has been rough… like all the others, really. I open my eyes as the smell of coffee wafts into my nose.

Ahhhhhhhhh, Joyce is back!

We shared a room for four years at Yale. From simple roommates, we became inseparable. Her naivety, her kindness moved me. Yes, I adore her like a little sister. Dragging my feet, I get up and head to the kitchen. I sit on a stool at the bar that separates the kitchen from the living room and rest my face on my fist. A cup silently appears in my line of sight. My God, I’d forgotten how thoughtful and sweet she is.

I inhale the wonderful smell of coffee, then take a big sip.

There, that’s better.

I feel the fog lifting from my mind, and I open my eyes. Joyce is sitting across from me, smiling. I see the same nostalgia in her eyes that I was feeling just moments ago. I smile back at her.

“Thank you.”

“How could I forget.”

I laugh.

“That would have been hard, considering how much I nagged you about it for four years.”

“Oh, even since then!”

I glare at her. It’s not funny… I know perfectly well I’m not a morning person… it’s not my fault if I can’t be asked anything before I’ve had my coffee! And I think this addiction has gotten worse since I started working for Beresford.

“Aren’t you going to work today?” Joyce finally asks.

I shrug.

“No need. I haven’t been going to the office on Saturdays for months—or rarely. I work from here. Besides, Mr. ­Beresford never goes in… unless I need a signature or something, then I go to his place.”

“Mmh.”

“What?”

“Your relationship is honestly strange.”

I nod.

“Probably… though you can’t really call it a relationship… is ‘non-relationship’ a thing? Besides, I don’t think he even knows my first name.”

Joyce’s eyes widen.

“No? You’re joking?”

I laugh.

“Not at all. He always calls me ‘Adams.’ You should come to the office one day… actually, no.”

Definitely not a good idea… let’s avoid Beresford meeting her… he’d want to get her into his bed. Oh no, not my Joyce.

“Why not?”

I sigh.

“Let’s just say… what they write about him and women in the papers is only a pale reflection of reality.”

“Oh,” she says, blushing.

Her reaction makes me smile.

“Alright, now that I’ve had my coffee, are you going to tell me what happened last night?”

Joyce lowers her eyes, ashamed. She annoys me sometimes! But I don’t say anything yet; I wait. Pushing her would only make her shut down.

I get up and make her some tea. She’s always preferred tea. When the steaming cup is in front of her, she smiles gratefully, then begins to tell me the story. Thankfully, it wasn’t anything too terrible. Okay, fine, I’m going to kill that guy, chop him into pieces, and feed him to the pigs. Beresford’s men can help me…

My mind is flooded with murderous ideas… I have an overactive imagination.

“No, Emma,” she suddenly says as she finishes her story.

I hear weariness in her voice. I look up and politely respond:

“Huh?”

What is she talking about now? I was peacefully lost in my bloody thoughts, and she…

“No, you’re going to leave him alone.”

“Pff, you’re no fun.”

“I’m going to leave him. No need for you to end up in prison… it was just a slap.”

This girl is infuriating when she gets like this.

“Are you kidding me?! What do you…”

She cuts me off with her indulgent, angelic smile. Ugh! She disarms me when she does that. I exhale loudly to show my disapproval. After a few seconds of silence, I continue.

“Fine, then you’re going to come live with me.”

“Here?” she says, startled.

I raise an eyebrow.

“Do you know of any other ‘homes’ that I might have?”

“Uh… no. But…”

“No buts… I can’t beat Greg up, so you’re at least going to come here to recharge. I’ll move the office; you can make it your room. I’ll work in the living room if I need to…”

“But…”

“Stop with the buts! I never use that room! I’m hardly ever here anyway! Oh, Joyce, let me help you, please.”

Joyce looks at me in a strange way.

“Emma, you’re really weird.”

“Why? Because I want to help you?”

“No, because you want to house me.”

I roll my eyes. It was that or sigh.

“I’ve always liked living with you.”

She laughs.

“That’s because I cook and make your coffee in the morning.”

I nod with a grimace. It’s completely true.

Sunday, May 20, I don’t know when but definitely too early

My phone rings.

But it’s not the alarm. What the heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeck is wrong with everyone this week, calling me in the middle of the night? Do I look like a night owl?!

Just a rhetorical question, obviously.

Very, very annoyed, not awake, I grab this instrument of technological torture and answer.

“I hope someone’s at least dead…”

I think I just growled. I don’t even know if what I said was understandable. Probably not.

“Emma? It’s Nate.”

I hear surprise in his voice.

“Are you okay? You sound like you’re sleeping.”

“Huh… but…” I open my eyes for a second, pull the phone away from my ear, and… I’m shocked. What are you doing calling me at five in the morning?! ON A SUNDAY?!

“Oops, sorry, I forgot about the time difference.”

Nate, Nathanael Hastings, my Preppy dream from Yale. Well, he became my friend and sometimes more, but he’s ­definitely not the love of my life like I dreamed as a kid. But I adore this guy; he’s what you’d call a best friend. Well, I love him under normal circumstances. Right now, I just want to throw him off the forty-second floor of his Manhattan ­apartment. Nate is ­adorable… but a bit rebellious in his own way. Despite growing up with a golden spoon in his mouth on the Upper East Side, he loves his life and his money but, out of sheer ­contrariness, refused the spot reserved for him at Harvard since birth and chose Yale instead, where we met. Oh, this man used to crack me up. Yeah, everyone knows Yale and Harvard students have hated each other and waged war for centuries.

“Sure, right…” I mumble.

“No, seriously, I’m calling because…” he begins in a cheerful voice.

“Is someone in your family dying?”

He pauses for a second, uncertain.

“Uh… no.”

“Are you suffering from a terminal illness?”

“No.”

“Is what you have to tell me so urgent it can’t wait until later when I’ve had my sleep quota?”

“I suppose it could, but…”

“Then don’t call me back for another six hours.”

And I hang up. I don’t think I even put my phone down; I fall back asleep instantly with a sigh of relief and ­contentment. I love my ability to fall asleep anywhere, anytime. I half-jump when I hear my phone fall. Oh yeah, I didn’t put it down.

Wednesday, May 30, mid-afternoon

A mocking voice pulls me out of my concentration.

“You look so serious in your suit and glasses.”

I smile, recognizing Nate. The other night, he just wanted to let me know he was passing through Los Angeles… poor guy, I didn’t treat him well! But he’s probably used to it by now. I stand to greet him and hug him as he steps into the room.

“I missed you too.”

“You didn’t tell me you’d come to pick me up,” I reproach him as I pull back.

“It wouldn’t have been as fun… I wanted to see you in your new environment.”

I grimace, and he bursts out laughing. It’s true that we usually see each other outside of my work hours, so I’m dressed more casually.

“You’re too tall like this!” he says, pointing at my heels. “I prefer it when I can rest my chin on your head.”

And now I’m almost his height. It amuses me. ­Mwhahahahahaha. So proud. I know it’s childish, but I laugh anyway. I return to my desk and sit down to focus again on my computer screen. Nate sits across from me, arms crossed.

“Alright, let’s go?”

“Five minutes, let me finish this, and I’m all yours.”

He stays silent. I look up from my computer to meet his blue eyes. He looks surprised, which makes me laugh.

“What?”

“You… you’re going to leave work now? Just like that? Without me having to harass you for hours? Without pushing you to the limit?”

I laugh for real this time.

“Well, since you were arriving today, I made arrangements.”

“Your nice boss isn’t here?”

“Am I the nice boss?” says the man himself, entering my office at that moment.

I sigh. Perfect timing, of course.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Beresford?” I ask with a hint of arrogance in my voice.

I can’t help it; it’s stronger than me.

“Adams, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

“No, sir.”

“You’re at your workplace,” he reminds me with a mocking smile.

I see Nate following the exchange, amused as well. He stands and introduces himself.

“Nate Hastings.”

“Jonathan Beresford.”

I watch them shake hands, their eyes locked on each other, before shaking my head.

“Okaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay, I’m going to stop this third-type encounter between two Victorian-era survivors right now… Mr. Beresford, what do you want?”

They finally break their gaze and both turn to me. Despite their vast physical differences, they give me the same look: something between astonishment and curiosity.

What’s gotten into them? I’m definitely grimacing now.

“ALRIGHT!” I continue after a few seconds of deep silence that’s seriously getting on my nerves. “So, here’s how it’s going to go: Mr. Beresford, I’m leaving the office in ten minutes, so if you need anything, it’s now. Nate, sit down and be quiet!”

The two ridiculously wealthy men keep staring at me in astonishment. They’re getting on my nerves. I cross my arms and glare at both of them.

“Are you going to tell me what you want?”

Nate and Beresford finally exchange one last look as I now watch them with surprise. Then Nate nods and leaves my office. What is he doing?

Beresford turns to me:

“I’ll have coffee with your friend. Finish what you’re doing… and I need you to bring me the budget forecast for this year.”

And he leaves.

Just like that.

Is it just me, or have I suddenly landed in a parallel universe?

**Chapter 2

June or When Karma Intervenes**

Friday, June 1, late evening

Nate arrives with my glass of white wine… well, at least that’s what I had asked for. Apparently, he didn’t listen because he’s holding two cocktails. He sets them on our table with a wide grin.

“Nate,” I sigh.

“What? I know you like Gimlets.”

I can’t help but smile; he’s sweet. He remembers I like gin. I shake my head.

“You’re lucky I’m in a good mood… because this isn’t what I wanted!”

“Pffff, always complaining!”

I laugh as Joyce arrives. And Nate frowns. He knows her; we saw each other a lot at Yale. He turns to me as my blonde best friend approaches with a big smile.

“What’s up with Joyce?”

I’d forgotten his sharp intuition. My eyes widen, and I glance at Joyce, who’s still smiling as she gets closer. She’s only three steps away. I quickly lean over the table and say:

“I’ll tell you tonight.”

He understands from my look that I’m serious and nods gravely just as Joyce sits down with a cheerful “Good evening!”

I end up completely drunk, as I do nine times out of ten when I go out with Nate… and I remember nothing when I wake up the next morning, completely naked, in a massive hotel bed with an equally naked Nate. As usual when I end up in a bar with Nate.

The problem with a friend who doesn’t care about money and spends whatever he wants whenever he wants without a second thought is that you get used to it. He buys me whatever I want whenever I want, and while I was initially embarrassed and offended, I now accept his gifts because I’ve realized he doesn’t do this for everyone. Thank goodness! It’s just because I’m me and he likes me… he tends to do it for Joyce too.

As I open my eyes, my long auburn hair tickles my face, and I scrunch my nose before brushing it away with my hand. I pull the sheets up over myself, then turn my head to the other side of the bed, trying to piece together my memories. There’s Nate, sleeping soundly… I remember the bar, the cocktails, the conversations about men with Joyce, who ended up telling her story herself. Nate was furious, because he also knows how sweet and kind my best friend is. More alcohol, dancing… a taxi ride back to the hotel, we left Joyce in another taxi that took her back to my—our—apartment. Ah, then the most ­interesting part of my night: my romp with Nate. It was still just as good, no doubt about it.

I give him one last glance before deciding to go back to sleep. No desire to go to work. They’ll call me if they need me.

Damn, I should feel ashamed; I’m really a piece of work. And with a smile, I fall back asleep.

Sunday, June 3, around noon, at Hailey’s

I think I have a stupid smile on my face because my sister is looking at me with irony. But I can’t help it. I love my nephew and godson, whom I’m holding in my arms. This little guy is celebrating his first birthday today, too. He even has his ­mother’s aquamarine blue-green eyes… though I say that, but my sister and I have the same ones. Joshua laughs in my arms, much to my delight, as I try to entertain him in every possible way. Haha, he’s so cute!

“You’re smitten.”

I look up and give her an offended look, which makes her laugh. But it’s not funny!

“What?” I mumble.

“You’re making me laugh.”

“I can see that.”