Page 22 of Man of the Year

Startled at seeing me, he stops and gives me a prolonged, hostile stare that kills any desire to introduce myself. He literally turns his back on me and leans in toward Rosalie.

“Another opportunist?” he asks, knowing perfectly well that I can hear him.

Well, hello to you, too.

“The boss is home,” Rosalie says, and the gardener’s expression freezes for a second. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard.

Why is everyone suddenly so uptight and self-aware?

He clears his throat. “What additional lights do we need on the back terrace for the party?” he asks, his eyes shifting from Rosalie to Julien to me.

Julien slowly chews, studying the apple in his hand like it helps him think better. “The illuminated spheres. Follow the setup chart that the landscape designer sent. Also, the tabletop fire pits need to be tested.”

The gardener listens but doesn’t move his eyes off me—the tension in his glare is real. Meanwhile, I try to focus on the voices in the main hallway. Two of them. The soft one belongs to Nick. The other one, louder and lower, is sort of booming, but in a soothing way, and belongs to Rosenberg, I assume.

In a minute, Nick walks into the kitchen, his gait confident, his expression cheerful. He looks sharp in his suit pants and crisp white shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, the tie loosened.

He stops short, noticing our small gathering. His eyes immediately fix on me, the corners of his lips tilting in a smile. “How is it going?”

His smile looks almost illegal among the sour faces of the others.

“Great,” I lie. I don’t carry on the conversation. Mr. Warden here might just fine me for fraternizing.

“Hey, guys, boss wants Thai,” Nick says to no one in particular. “The usual. Make it for two people.”

According to what I learned from Rosalie, Geoffrey Rosenberg spends a significant amount of time in his home office. He doesn’t like home-cooked food, so the kitchen is hardly ever used. Instead, he orders takeout and apparently loves international cuisine.

Rosalie nods and fishes a phone out of her pocket. Oh? So, she’s allowed to use a phone, but not me? Unfair.

“It should be about forty minutes for the delivery,” she states, typing away.

“He also wants those coconut drinks he had a week ago,” Nick adds.

“I’ll have to go get them from the shopping plaza.”

“Make Natalie go.”

Rosalie stiffens at the words and glances up at me.

Supposedly, Rosenberg is known for having sudden and unusual whims for food and other things. Like hákarl, Icelandic fermented shark. Or some trending gadget he sees online, something he wants “now, within an hour,” so someone has to drive and find it at a store. Eccentric, but not unusual, considering his wealth and resources.

Anyway, I’m in. Driving is much more relaxing than scrubbing floors or sorting party supplies.

Nick scans everyone in the kitchen until his eyes stop on Julien. “Make Natalie bring it to the office when it’s ready.”

I lower my head, gloating at Julien’s reaction, which I can’t see, but I can totally picture well-disguised irritation and sparks coming out of his eyes when he looks at me.

Rosalie tries to argue. “Ican do it.”

Nick scrunches up his brows apologetically. “Boss wants to meet the new staff member.”

I glance at Nick, who purses his lips and walks out, leaving the awkward silence behind him.

This shouldn’t be a big deal, but the silence in the kitchen feels hostile.

“You heard him,” Julien finally says curtly to no one in particular. “Make it fast,” he snaps and walks out, too.

So, that’s that—the boss wants to meet me. That’s good, right?

---