Page 14 of Over My Dead Boss
Today I can make do with a black jeans and a black shirt that says ‘What Happens At Bookclub Stays At Bookclub’.If that doesn’t prove that I like to read, then what would?I tie a knot into the bottom to make the tee fit a little better and inspect myself in the mirror. If this was a job interview, I’d probably be laughed out of the room, but luckily I already landed the job, or rather clawed my way into it. I pull my hair up into a messy bun, grab my glasses, and head into the living room. Dog still sleeps in her little bed but wakes up when I close the door behind me. There’s no sight of Mr. Cyrus. Figures he would be oversleeping. I decide to take the stairs to the upper floor, not entirely sure what to expect. What would a billionaire like him do with a bunch of empty rooms in his home? As images of torture chambers and BDSM dungeons flash before my eyes, I creep through the hallway and try to open the first door. It is locked and somehow I am relieved. Dog looks at me as if she wants to shake her head, then walks all the way to the end of the hallway, sitting down in front of a heavy wooden door. I follow her lead and tiptoe to the door, then open it carefully while holding my breath, afraid of what might be on the other side.
8
To my surprise, it is a fairly normal room. Bare even. It mostly consists of a giant bed, positioned in front of even bigger windows which are covered by heavy shades, only letting in a tiny amount of light. I can hear Mr. Cyrus’s gentle breathing emanating from under his blanket and wonder if the bed is that big to accommodate the weird sex parties he undeniably must host here. Maybe it’s so all his girlfriends can fit at the same time. Who knows? Dog remains outside his door when I enter. The clock on my phone says 7.02 AM, and we did sayseven sharp.
Feeling more than justified in what I am about to do, I walk over to his bed, grab his blanket and resolutely make it fly off and onto the floor. My heart stops for a second when I realize that Phoenix Cyrus sleeps bare-naked. The muscles on his back naturally lead my eyes further south and I stare for a second longer than I should (because of the shock, naturally) before finally turning around to avert my gaze. I open my mouth to apologize, but nothing comes out.
“Rule number two. Don’t touch anything you’re not supposed to touch,” a tired voice grunts behind me, still half-asleep.
“Actually,” I correct him, “that was part of rule number one,andrule number two: ‘No snooping. Don’t touch anything you’re not supposed to touch.’”
I can hear Phoenix turn around and slowly crawl out of his bed. Still entirely naked, I presume.
“So we agree you broke not only one but two rules at once then?” The tiredness in his voice somehow makes him sound even broodier, which, in turn, makes my knees feel weak.
“Well,” I stutter a little, “I wouldn’t have, if you had been up on time like we had discussed.”
“You have a weird definition of the worddiscuss. Now hand me that, will you?” His arm motions from behind me towards the blanket. Quickly, I bend down, pick it up and, resisting the urge to turn around, hand it to him without stealing a peek. My naked boss wraps himself in the blanket and walks off into the adjoining bathroom without saying another word. Dog makes a whining noise from outside the room and I have to sigh in agreement.
“Off to a good start, aren’t we?” I ask as the two of us walk back down to the kitchen. “How about we prepare some breakfast real quick to make up for whatever that was?”
I roam around the kitchen and find some kibble that I put into a bowl for Dog to eat. Then I raid the fridge and find all the ingredients to make scrambled eggs and bacon and nothing more. The fridge is empty after our cooking session yesterday, except for some vegetables, which leads me to believe that Nana was right. He would just live off scotch and cynicism and, by the looks of him, protein shakes if he could. By the time I have figured out how to use his fancy coffee machine, Mr. Cyrus descents the stairs and joins me in the kitchen. His hair is still wet from the shower and I try not to imagine him naked when he stands in front of me fully clothed.
Get a grip, Olivia. You’re a professional, here to do a job.
No, not that kind of job. Fuck. What is wrong with me?
On my way to carry the scrambled eggs to the table, I almost run into his usual scowling self. He’s rubbing his brow as if to ward off a headache.
“What is it now, Mr. Cyrus? Am I not allowed to prepare breakfast for you either?”
He takes a step to the side and passes me to get to the coffee. “You’re quite snarky. Got up on the wrong foot? Did someone barge into your room, too, and rudely stole your blanket?”
“Right, sorry about that. Maybe tomorrow you could wear a onesie to bed so I don’t have to go through such a traumatic event again.”
“All my onesies are in the laundry,” he grimaces, which elicits a weird sensation in my stomach, “and don’t call me Mr. Cyrus.”
We sit down at the table and I am quite happy with myself since the eggs look fairly edible. Not delicious, but also not like rubber. When Mr. Cyrus, or the person whom I am not supposed to call by his name, sits down, Dog immediately walks over and puts her head on his lap, whining a little.
“Oh, right,” he says, gets up and carries the bowl of kibble from the kitchen to the table, putting it next to his plate.
“That’s a little weird, you know,” I say and dig into my food as Dog climbs up onto the chair.
“She doesn’t eat otherwise. I think she thinks she’s human. She even knows how to use the toilet. Don’t you, Dog?” He ruffles her head and is rewarded with a drawn out howl in response. All three of us eat in silence for a bit, and I am relieved to see him finish his entire plate. “That was horrible,” he finally says. “I’d prefer if you tried not to poison me again.”
Choosing to take the high road, I ignore his rude comment and change the subject. “Anyway, so I think it would be best if you could catch me up on how far along the manuscript is right now. I should read it and then we can work on it together. Also, if you don’t want me to call you by your last name, then what should I call you?”
He lets out a huff of air through his nose as if I had just proposed to marry him. “You will get the manuscript once it’s done. And how about you just don’t call me? Don’t talk to me. Unless someone is about to die.”
“Well, I’d rather not attempt to assassinate you whenever we need to speak, but I’ll come up with something to call you. And, rule number two: ‘I will edit what you write.’ I’m pretty sure you agreed to it.”
“My books don’t get edited.”
“Isn’t Isabella usually your editor?”
“If you wanna call it that. She makes a lot of suggestions that I then ignore. That’s why people like my books.”
Smug jackass. I really hate that I am one of those people.
