Chapter Three—Lidia

A rhythmic thumping pounded against my skull, and I stirred briefly, realizing too late that I wasn't in my bed, but on the couch—and the floor met my face with a loud thump.

"Ouch," I mumbled into the age-old carpet. I tried to move but the sheet on top of me tangled with my legs and I struggled with no luck to get them free. "Help!" I yelled halfheartedly.

Scott walked into the living room, dressed in khakis and a red polo. "Look, it's Jake from State Farm."

He smirked. "That's not a comment from someone that needs my assistance."

I reached my arms out like a toddler. "Help me up, please." He grabbed my hands and jerked me up to a sitting position. The sun positioned itself lower in the sky than I originally imagined when I opened my eyes.

The overlarge clock hanging over our entertainment center read eleven twenty-five. "Is it really almost noon?" I asked, scratching my head and standing up slowly.

The room spun for a moment, but I gathered myself—somewhat gracefully—to my feet. "Your phone was ringing earlier, I didn't answer it, but someone left a voicemail."

I grabbed my phone from the coffee table and unlocked it. "Did you make coffee yet?"

Scott scoffed and grabbed a water from the refrigerator and his keys from the hanger by the door. "Yeah, three hours ago."

I opened up my voicemail and frowned at him. "Why didn't you wake me? And why aren't you hungover like me?"

He chuckled. "My tolerance doesn't compare to a sixteen-year-old girl. We had three glasses of wine and you were a goner." He stopped by the door and grinned. "I never knew you were the one to really pull the first extinguisher that time in sixth grade."

I gasped. "I told you that? I promised myself I would take it to my grave. I still think Mr. Wellborn will come and put me in the chokey for that."

"In school suspension hardly compares to the chokey, Lid."

I shrugged. "Close. Who wants to sit and stare at the wall all day like a prisoner? No thanks."

Scott opened the front door and hollered back at me, "I texted you some online job offers, check them out, and I'll see you later."

"Later," I said, opening up my voicemail and propping my feet onto the living room table.

"Lidia Lambert, this is Jace Archer. Please come in today at twelve for a second interview. See you soon."

The spit in my throat caught, and I stumbled to stand, my eyes racing between my phone and the clock on the wall. Thirty minutes.

In a scamper toward my room, I realized quickly almost everything I owned was dirty, but the dress I wore the day before that laid on the floor in front of my bed. Would he remember? I didn't know and I didn't have time to care.

I slipped it on, brushed through the tangles in my hair, gargled mouthwash and poured myself a to-go coffee. Missy, my old Honda Civic, started as I imagined a ninety-year-old did in the morning.

"Come on, Baby, I have ten minutes," I said nicely, feeling her rumble beneath my palm.

I raced—as much as you can through downtown traffic—toward the gallery, my clock moved to twelve after noon as I flew from my crappy parallel parking job and caught my dress in the door.

"Ugh," I groaned, unlocking my door again and then slamming it shut. I barreled toward the entrance, slinging the door a little too fast and it hit the opposing wall with a bang.

Rebecca jumped, her container of paperclips flew up and around her like rain. "Oh my gawd," she gawked. "What the—"

A couple stood in the front room, holding hands in front of a nude statue and looked over their shoulders.

"Sorry," I mumbled and walked toward Rebecca's desk. "I'm here to see Mr. Archer," I said, fixing my hat.

With a parted mouth, she gave me a seriously look. "Did he call you? Because he doesn't take visitors." She glanced down at my dress and said loud enough for everyone to hear, "Did you wear that yesterday?"

I swallowed the different varieties of don't try me ho and smiled sweetly at her. "He called me today—"

"Let her up, Rebecca," thundered from the top of the staircase.

I felt her gaze on me the entire way up the staircase and toward his office. My breath was still lagging behind me, so when I walked in, I probably resembled a chubby eighth grade me after gym class.

"Hey. Hi, I mean, you called me didn't you. Sorry, I'm late, I didn't get the voicemail until I woke up."

Jace watched me take a seat, his hands shoved into his pockets and his perfect God's blessing of a face tilted to the side. "You didn't wake up until almost noon?"

I cringed. "Well, I had one heck of a night, ya know, things didn’t really go my way yesterday, or so I thought, so I drown myself in wine and Mexican food while spilling my deep dark secrets to—"

I stopped abruptly when he lifted a brow. "Never mind," I whispered, waving the sentence away.

Jace walked around to stand in front of me, leaned against his desk, and buttoned the buttons on his shirt cuff. "Lidia, can you do this job?"

Was this a trick question? "Of course," I said confidently. "I'm qualified to be an assistant."

He nodded. "You are indeed. However, I'm a little nervous to be real with you. You showed up fifteen minutes late today, and you seem to talk … a lot. Can you show up on time? Can you keep quiet when we're in a meeting?"

"Yes," I straightened my shoulders. "I'm just talking because you're intense," I said. "You haven't truly smiled at me once. It weirds me out," I blurted out, biting my lip after because why would I even say that aloud?

I guess my filter fell out on the rush through traffic. Who am I kidding? I don't have one. I pressed my lips together to keep my mouth shut and stop my smile. This wasn't a nervous smiling time. I was either going to walk out of here with a job or tuck my tail and leave with that snot of a receptionist laughing at me.

He crossed his arms across his chest. "I'm intense, huh? Well, you'll be working with me every day, is my intenseness going to be a problem?"

I shook my head. I'd make him smile eventually. "No, Sir—uh—Mr. Archer—"

He held up his palm. "Jace, call me Jace. Is your phone on in your purse?"

I frowned but double check. "Nope, I'm good."

"Then come on," he said, walking toward the door. When I didn't get up, he glanced back at me. "Do you want the job or not?"

"Yes," I stood up. "Where are we going? Am I starting now?"

"We have a meeting with the artist for next Friday's exhibition. I'll have Rebecca email you over a schedule for the next month after, but now," he said, pointing toward a notebook and pen on his desk, "I want you to talk notes for me."

I grabbed the notebook and pen quickly and pressed them against my chest. His dark eyes lingered against my dress and his brows pinched together tightly. "Actually, first, change your dress, it's on inside out."

I reached back and felt around for the tag—sure enough—it was on backward. "One second," I said, rushing past him toward the bathroom in the hallway.

I hurried and made myself somewhat presentable and met him at the door of a conference room with huge glass windows and a view overlooking Houston's skyline.

"Darby, it's good to see you," Jace said, introducing me to the middle-aged man and his agent.

I took a seat beside him and began writing down the times, request and projects that were going to be displayed. I'd heard of Darby before, briefly, my senior year.

He painted landscapes mostly, and they were really detailed and beautiful for the most part. Halfway into the meeting my stomach began to move.

I'd drunk half of my coffee on the way over and hadn't consumed any real food since the night before. I tucked my lip into my mouth and tried to focus on my writing.

"What food do you have planned to serve?" his agent asked. She looked old enough to be our mother, with short pixie hair and an aged face.

"Appetizers, finger foods," Jace mumbled, tapping his pen against the table. He looked like he was far away from the table, and in a different mindset.

I didn't peg him for someone that didn't focus on his work, but today something else was on his mind. Maybe why he hired me in the first place?

I'd prove to him I could do this. Rent was due in two weeks.

Darby cleared his throat. "What do you think about the centerpiece?"

I glanced up when no one answered, realizing he asked me. I tucked my hair, highly aware of Jace staring daggers at me, and said, "It's lovely, but honestly, I like the skyline of Houston the best—well considering—" I stopped.

A loud grumble came from my stomach, and I felt dizzy. Oh please, no. I wrapped my arm around my stomach and pressed inward, trying to keep anything that wanted out—inside.

I thought about our toast the night before to three am diarrhea—I didn't remember having that, which told me one thing. It was coming like the Lituya Bay tsunami.

Please for the love of anything good left in my life—do not throw up or poop on yourself. Another grumble started, this time it got their attention.

"I'm not feeling well," I leaned in and whispered to Jace. He met my gaze—probably remembering my spill about drinking my night away—and grabbed my notebook slowly.

"Go," he said.

I got up, gave them a small wave and walked toward the door. I bit back the burning sensation traveling up my throat but not before everything went dizzy. The last thing I remembered was feeling the hard tile smack against my face.

Muffled voices echoed around me, and I vaguely recognized a pair of leather boots coming toward me. I felt air rush around me and my head flop around as I was carried away.

"I got the job," I giggled out before everything went black.

***

When I opened my eyes, I stared at the glass windows of a familiar office. I sat up quickly, my head spun, and I pressed my palm against my mouth, finding a trash can in the far corner of the office; I raced over and puked up last night's cheap wine. I pulled back and pressed my head against the wall.

"Better?"

My eyes popped opened to see Jace leaning against his desk, a deadpanned look on his face. Rebecca stood in the corner of the room by the door wearing a disgusted snarl.

"Oh," I said, standing to my feet. "I'm better—I just need some water or food."

Jace pointed toward the small table in front of the couch I'd been lying on. I walked over and downed the water in one gulp and grabbed a cracker. "Thank you," I said.

When no one said anything, I asked, "Do I still have a job? Did I throw up on anyone?"

Rebecca rolled her eyes, but Jace shook his head. "You didn't throw up on anyone and your notes—what you took of them—were good. Can you show up tomorrow not hungover?"

I saluted him. "Yes, Sir." Why do I do the things I do?

Jace pursed his lips as if he was trying to debate something—probably my position—and sighed. "Rebecca leave us."

Rebecca swayed out of the room, giving me a look I didn't bother trying to figure out over her shoulder.

Jace ran his tongue over his perfect pearly whites and pointed toward the chair in front of him. I walked over and sat down, suddenly more nervous because his dark gaze was back on me.

"This job entails a lot of things from you," he said, leaning back in his seat. I fought with my eyes to look at the way his button-down stretched across his pecs at the movement.

I wonder how often he works out?

"Can you do that?" he asked.

I hadn't heard a word he said, but I nodded. Maybe I can't do this. He looks good, is that something someone gets over quickly? Rebecca seemed comfortable, but who was I to know how often she was around good-looking men. Scott was good looking, but I'd been there in first grade when he mooned the entire class and picked his nose.

It was much different from the Greek God sitting across from me. Much. Different.

"Yes."

Jace leaned forward, his lips parted and then shut a few times before he said, "I need you to be here at seven every morning with me. I need you to do what I ask when I ask it, because we'll also be on a tight schedule." When I nodded, he said, "I need you to do something else for me, Lidia, and—" He coughed and tugged at the neck of his shirt.

"Anything," I said eagerly.

"I need you to date me.”