Interviewer: Well, at this stage in your career, surely you know money doesn’t buy everything.
Mr. Parker: When you finally get some, you’ll see that it actually does.
I tossed that issue across the room and opened another, then another. Then I realized that I’d just signed on to work with the cockiest asshole in all of New York City, that I’d sealed my fate with a man who once told a male interviewer, “I hope your fucking is better than your ‘in-depth’ interview questions. If not, I would highly consider working on improving the former, as the latter is completely hopeless.”
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
Two Months Later
Six
Tara
“The miserable middle”
Please don’t sound yet. Please don’t sound yet …
Mornings like today made me wish I had access to a time machine, so I could go back and slap the hell out of myself for making whatever decisions led up to this very moment. It was only three o’clock, but the skies were releasing a relentless rain over the city, and I was forcing myself to “enjoy” the only time of the day that I ever got to myself.
I was sprawled across my bean bags, my feet wrapped in pain-relief ice packs from running around New York in designer stilettos. A thermometer protruded from my lips—showing a traitorous “normal” temperature, and I was watching the alarm clock like a hawk. Waiting for the second hand to land on five, so I could toss back my next set of stress medication and deal with my “dream job” for another day.
Over the past couple of months, I’d taken a crash course in the world of hotels, and it was far more complicated than I’d ever thought. Every day brought a new round of crisis meetings, a new goal of “Parker level excellence” to meet, and for guests who were paying a minimum of five hundred dollars a night to stay in any of Preston’s properties, disappointment wasn’t an option.
To ensure perfection, Preston stopped at nothing to make it right. He was utterly ruthless, and everyone knew that he’d fire you in a heartbeat. In my short time working for him, he’d never taken a day off, never mentioned needing a break, or traveled away to spend time with his family. In fact, rumor had it that he didn’t have a family at all.
He was a machine, and I was certain he never slept. (He was also an asshole, and I was more than certain that I wouldn’t be his employee for too much longer.)
Ding. Ding. Ding!
The stress medicine reminder on my phone sounded, and I washed the pills down with water.
Scrolling through my texts, I sent my boyfriend Michael a quick message.
Me: Hey. I’m up thinking about you before work. Hope you’ll still be able to help me look for a new apartment this weekend?
He answered me right away.
Michael: Oh, you’re still alive? LOL Sure, babe. If your boss lets you have a life outside of your job this weekend, I’ll be there. Are you coming to my Happy Hour tonight?
Me: I’ll try, but I can’t promise since my boss is hosting a shareholders meeting. Raincheck just in case?
Michael: Always. I’ll email you something during your workday to make you forget all about him. (Looking forward to finally getting you alone again once you get off probation [raindrop emoji] [eggplant emoji] [raindrop emoji].)
I sent him kiss emojis in return and smiled. We hadn’t spent more than a few hours together since I started this job, and although a part of me was upset about that, another part of me—one I couldn’t explain—was perfectly fine with the new strain.
When I checked the time again, I felt my smile slowly slipping away.
And in three, two, one …
My phone buzzed in my hand, and my inbox came to life for the sixty-first day of my new career.
Subject: Mr. Parker’s Breakfast Order: Please Confirm Before Pickup
Subject: Meeting Request for Mr. Parker
Subject: Notes for Sarasota Meeting
Subject: Schedule Change—Jones Opening Moved to Monday
Subject: Cancellation Confirmation Needed: Private Flight to Rome Next Wed?
Subject: Mister New York Interview Request
I groaned and got off the bean bags, taking a quick shower and slipping into my favorite nude dress and a pair of red-soled heels.
“You know what I’m not going to miss about us living in this apartment?” Ava sat up from her air mattress in the corner.
“What?”
“The fact that I can hear your every move, even when I’m sleeping.” She laughed. “Why do you insist on getting up so early every day? You don’t have to be at work until eight o’clock.”
“Because, Miss Lauren,” I said, mocking Preston’s voice, “the people who I’m not directly depending on don’t have to be at work until eight. My right-hand needs to be up as early as I am, and she always needs to beat me there to set an example. Or else.”
“Has he ever explained the ‘or else’ part?” she asked. “Because if it’s hot punishment sex, I think you should consider being late every day.”
I laughed. “I hope to never find out. I’ve officially decided that I’m only working for him for six months, so I can have enough in the bank to stay steady until I find something less hectic.”
“You sure about that?”
“One hundred percent.” I grabbed my briefcase and hit the lights before walking out of our door.
When I made it outside, a town car was waiting for me as usual, and a driver was holding the back door open.
“Good morning, Taylor,” he said.
“It’s Tara. Like, I’ve told you and everyone in this company my name, and you all are still calling me Taylor. Is it that much harder to say or something?”
He didn’t answer me. He just held the door open and smiled.
I slid onto the backseat, answering five emails before we made it to the end of the block.
“Can you verbally confirm all the stops for this morning, Taylor?” the driver asked.
“Yes.” I didn’t bother correcting him this time. “We need to stop at Aldman’s for a pickup, Tom Ford for his suits, the pier to ensure his newest yacht was repositioned properly, Dean & DeLuca for his breakfast, and we’ll grab his coffee last.”
He nodded and passed me a small basket of chocolate before turning up his music and heading toward Aldman’s.
When we were halfway there, Preston’s name—My Asshole Boss, flashed across my screen. I debated whether I should answer it, whether I should figure out the “or else” part, after all.
I gave in before it could go to voicemail.
“Good morning, Mr. Parker,” I answered, fake cheer in my voice. “How may I help you?”
“I’m calling to make sure that you’ll be arriving to work on time this morning, since you were six minutes late yesterday.”
“I was only two minutes late.”
“You were still late,” he said, his voice deep. “Late enough that I wasn’t the only one who noticed. Seeing as though you’re my top aide, I can’t afford to have anyone thinking that you’re getting special privileges from me—that you’re getting on top of me, when it’s clear that your position is under me. I also don’t want you thinking that you’ll ever be able to come as you please without my permission, especially whenever the two of us begin to work on the Von Strum deal behind closed doors. Clear?”