His Accidental Personal Assistant

Chapter 1: T E A R S

Dense, pungent smoke swung through the air.

Her legs ran faster than her mind as she dashed through her apartment. She tossed the ball of laundry that sat like a plump and squirmy baby in her hands. Amaris' hands fumbled to turn off the stove. The smoke detector screeched in response, blaring loudly.

"No! Not again!" she groaned.

With a kitchen towel, she waved wildly, shooing the clouds of smoke out of the single shuttered window.

"I knew I shouldn't have left it!"

The pan was caked with greasy soot. Whatever was in the pan before was now complete ash, flowing alongside the smoke. She went into a coughing fit, the fumes snaking inside her lungs. She slipped forward with her hands, tossing away the smoldering pan. She'd seen this situation many times before.

Every time she tried to make something other than instant noodles, everything would go up in flames. She never stopped cooking, though, no matter how many pans she'd have to wash or spatulas she'd have to buy. It was never her determination to learn that encouraged her; rather, it was her determination to spend less money on food. Money went in and out of the other side, much like an open piggy bank. Whenever her credit card entered her hands, Amaris' impulse took over her head.

She hoped that she had broken the habit of throwing cash at anything and everything. This time, it was different. She had to be different. She teetered on the edge of a cliff, with everything to lose. What she would do now would define her life.

Her phone violently rang through the smoke detector's noise. The walls of her throat violently ached, and her wringing heart lodged between them. The frenzy in her eyes dissipated into longing and anxiousness.

Like when she ran to the stove, Amaris sprung on her heels. The hem of her flared, bell-bottom yoga pants caught the edge of the coffee table. A large tear came from the pants at the end of her knee.

"Drat!" she muttered.

But she continued to look at her phone. She snatched it up eagerly, her fingers tapping on everything. Her hands became moist to the touch, and her eyes grew larger than moons. Her heart lunged against the brackets of her rib cage. Instantly, she picked up the call. This wasn't a call she could avoid.

Momentarily, the room filled with a heavy, agonizing, and apprehensive silence (apart from the screeching smoke detector, of course) while she paced about. She walked around in her strangely oversized flip-flops. The quietness made her wince.

"Hello," she greeted.

She hadn't known whether there was life on the other side. Her grip strengthened with every second she had to wait.

"Hello," echoed back a voice.

The voice was feminine, vibrant yet professional, but still artificial. It was a voice that you've heard a hundred times, like the ones you'd hear in a Kohl commercial. But still, in that artificial voice, Amaris found comfort.

"Are you Amaris Moreno?"

"Yes, please," she replied hastily.

"Great..."

For a brief pause, the woman on the other end began typing.

"You applied for a personal assistant position, is that correct?"

"Yes."

Again, clicks came from her computer.

"Alright."

"Well, you did very well."

Amaris felt that she was only lying to butter up the truth. She'd heard the same words before, and the more she heard them, the sicker she got. At least this time, she actually had a callback.