Chapter 5 Four-Eyed Trouble
He doesn't leave. I'm aware of him standing there.
Lawrence Moore, founder and CEO, watching his assistant empty her insides on the West Side Highway.
This is a new low. A record low. I didn't know lows could go this low.
Knowing him, I bet he's not staying because he's a gentleman.
That's too kind of him.
He's staying because he probably considers standing guard over a vomiting employee a standard management technique.
"Developing loyalty through shared humiliation," he'd call it.
Finally, the cramping eases, and I straighten slowly, wiping my face again before turning to face him.
He's holding a bottle of water. Where he got it, I have no idea.
"Rinse," he orders.
I take it from him, turning again to rinse, spit, rinse again. Then drink.
"Get back in the car. We're causing traffic." He says.
I follow him back to the Maybach.
"Your Kansai Ben dialect is flawless." Lawrence's voice cuts through the silence as Elias starts the engine. "It was probably one of the reasons the Satōs warmed up to our deal."
I don't look at him. "Thank you, Mr Moore."
A second passes again before I chip in, "And you're welcome."
I can feel his jaw tightening.
Biting back a smile, I stare out the window, feeling proud of myself.
Lawrence wanted an assistant who sits in corners and doesn't speak unless spoken to.
Too bad, Mr Moore. You got me instead.
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"He's arrogant, bossy, walks around like he owns the goddamn planet, which, okay, he kind of does, but still, I swear to God sometimes I just want to…" I choke the air in front of me with both hands.
Beverly laughs into her salad.
We're in a little bistro down the street from the office, finally on lunch break. It's been exactly a week since Lawrence arrived, and he has done nothing but make my life a living hell.
I take a long sip of my chocolate milkshake, then drench my fries in ketchup.
"Y'know, I won't lie." I continue, fueled by anger. "He's hot, having that whole tall, icy, sexy-professor thing going on… the whole damn fantasy package. But then he opens his mouth and the fantasy turns into a nightmare." I throw the fries into my mouth.
"Absolute narcissistic, overpriced
\-suit-wearing, good-for-nothing, four-eyed…"
Beverly's eyes go wide, her face draining of colour so fast, I think she's going to faint.
She's staring at something behind me.
I stop my ranting. "What?"
She gives the tiniest shake of her head.
My stomach drops.
Slowly, I turn around, only to see the man in question—Lawrence Moore, standing right there, behind me in a dark blue Tom Ford suit.
One hand is in his pocket, the other holding a black coffee.
I go very rigid.
He appears calm in a terrifying way, one eyebrow raised above the rim of those stupidly perfect glasses, and the look on his face says he heard every word.
My soul leaves my body.
I feel every curse I just spat out ricochet back and slap me in the face.
Fuck.
Me.
Dead.
"Miss Thorn," Lawrence says in a calm tone, as he pulls out the chair beside me and sits down.
"G-good afternoon, Mr Moore." I stammer.
"Please, don't stop on my account. I believe you'd just reached the 'four-eyed…' part."
He crosses one leg over the other, fully facing me, giving me his undivided attention.
Heat rushes to my cheeks so fast I'm surprised my face doesn't burn.
"I…That wasn't…" I stammer again, looking down at my pack of fries like they can rescue me.
He tilts his head, waiting.
Beverly is quiet, her face reflecting her fear.
"I… I, uh, didn't expect to see you in a place like this," I mutter weakly.
"It isn't my kind of place," he says. "But their espresso is tolerable. Better than the sad brown water you've been serving me all week." Predatory green eyes glare at me. "Starting today, you'll get my coffee here. Black, no sugar."
"Yes, sir," I whisper.
Lawrence uncrosses his legs and stands smoothly. "See me in my office when you get back. We'll finish this conversation there."
And with the grace of a dark archangel, he strides out of the bistro.
My head drops straight into my hands. "I'm so fired, Bev," I mumble into my palms.
She rubs my arms gently.
"Hey," she says softly, squeezing my shoulder. "Look at me."
I can't. I'm busy trying to melt into the floors of this diner and disappear forever.
"At least he didn't fire you on the spot," Beverly whispers, trying to sound hopeful. I groan into my palms.
The bell over the door chimes as someone else leaves, and I finally straighten.
Beverly's trying not to laugh. "Scarlett. Breathe. He sat down. He ordered you to get his coffee from here from now on. That's… weirdly specific. And he said you'll finish this in his office, not 'pack your things.'"
She may be right, so I drop my arms. "You're delusional."
"Or you're in trouble of an entirely different kind," she says, eating her salad.
I throw a fry at her, and she giggles.
"Come on. Eat up. Our break will soon be over."
But I can't eat up.
I already lost my appetite.
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Lawrence stares at me, his arms crossed and brows drawn in a frown.
I try to avoid his gaze, but my eyes keep darting back to him.
"Give me one good reason I shouldn't fire you right now, Miss Thorn," he says.
My mind goes completely blank. Every clever excuse I rehearsed with Beverly immediately evaporates.
"Sir…"
"One good reason."
"I… I'm a hard worker, uh, dedicated employee, and…"
"You think I'm strangulation-worthy," he interrupts flatly.
Heat burns my cheek. "No, I didn't mean all that. I was just venting, sir. I assure you that…"
"I want you to say it again. All of it. To my face." He cuts in.
I gulp hard. "Mr Moore?"
"Repeat it." He deadpans.
Is he being serious right now?
"I… don't remember exactly."
Lawrence leans forward, his elbows resting on the desk, his voice low and terrifyingly calm. "Let me help. You started with how 'hot' I am."
A deep blush taints my cheek.
"And then, you called me an absolute narcissist…"
Oh God.
My stomach churns with nerves.
"...overpriced-suit-wearing, good-for-nothing…"
I gape at him in incredulity.
How come he remembers everything I said? And word for word?
"I have an excellent memory, Miss Thorn. I don't forget things. Ever." He says it so casually that one won't think he's explaining to me why he's so terrifying.
"Most people lose the details. I don't." He goes on. "I was reading license plates and reciting them backwards at four."
I fold my arms, choosing not to give him the wide-eyed reaction he must be used to. I will not swoon. I will absolutely not swoon.
"At seven, I memorised the periodic table because the poster in science class was a little crooked, and it bothered me. By nine, I could watch a televised chess match once and play it back move-for-move in my head."
Lawrence pauses, watching me. "That same year, I realised I could memorise locker combinations after seeing them a single time."
Okay, maybe I'll swoon a little.