Page 40 of Man of the Year

Nick snaps his head toward me, his gaze confused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, staff aren’t allowed to mingle, right?”

I can tell I hurt his ego a little.

He shrugs. “I’m not just a driver,” he says, slightly hostile. “I’m his assistant. I’m his butler. His right-hand man. He’d fall apart without me.”

I bet you shine.That’s a lot of credit to take. “The guy is a millionaire, and you work for him.”

“The richest people are not necessarily the smartest. I make sure that guy stays in check. If it weren’t for me, he’d be broke, or in jail, or dead.”

“Whoa. That’s ambitious.”

Rosenberg’s loud laughter at the front jerks Nick’s head in his direction.

Rosenberg is exchanging pleasantries with the woman in the white suit. I look between him and Nick and can’t figure out if Nick is envious or too dedicated to his boss. He looks like a pet that is upset because he doesn’t get enough attention from his master.

“He’s a genius,” I repeat the words I read in an article. “Mr. Rosenberg,” I clarify.

“He’s a closet alcoholic and a womanizer,” Nick says unusually sharply.

“Harsh.”

“If it weren’t for IxResearch and this”—he motions to the mansion—“you’d never give him a second look. Am I wrong?”

He turns to me, his gaze burning.

Is he upset? Angry? Envious? I don’t blame him. It’s disheartening to put everything you have into serving others, whether an employer or a business, and not get any credit for it. I feel like he needs approval.

“Well,” I say, intentionally batting my eyelashes at him. “That’s why I savedyourlife.”

Nick’s expression softens, and he bursts into a hushed chuckle.

I smile back. I bet he tries hard to make it in this big world, just like me, whatever the cost. Except, knowing that Rosenberg might be a dangerous man, I’m starting to wonder what the cost is for Nick.

I scan the terrace and catch sight of Julien. He stands in the shadows, out of sight, and he’s staring at me.

“Dammit,” I mutter. “Julien is watching me like a hawk.”

Nick snorts. “Staff patrol is on. You should get back to work,” he says, his attention back on the front of the crowd.

I wish I could hang out with Nick—not in my staff uniform, but as a guest. I’ve served plenty celebrities, but I’ve never hung out with any, except for off-Broadway stars in the small theaters Cara used to work back in the day.

I start walking among the guests, deliberately making my way toward Julien. His eyes track my movements. I step up to him and offer a drink.

His gaze hardens. “You are not paid for fraternizing with the staff,” he says coldly.

I fake a smile. “Understood.”

I keep the graceful pose, my arm bent behind my back as I walk away, the fake smile plastered on my face as I offer drinks to the guests.

I return to the kitchen for another tray. Rosalie is preoccupied with opening bottles of juice. Meanwhile, I study the bottles of booze lined up on the counter. Whiskey—bingo! I take one of the tall glasses we use for sodas and iced tea and fill it with ice, then fill it to the brim with whiskey. I push a lemon slice onto the rim and stick a straw in. I place the glass on the tray with the other tall glasses, close to me, so that no one takes it, and make my way back to the terrace.

This time, I have a clear destination—Rosenberg.

At your service, sir, I say to myself, and this time, my smile is genuine.

TWENTY-NINE

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