Million Dollar Devil

10.

I fumble for my phone, heart pounding as I brace for the confirmation that I've officially screwed up. Four missed calls stare back at me. Four.

I glance up at Mr. Hayes, standing there in the rain-slicked hallway, his suit crisp and perfect despite the night pressing in all around us. His face is as unreadable as ever, but something colder simmers behind his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Hayes," I say quickly, my voice embarrassingly small. "I'll grab the notes right now."

I turn toward the door, jamming my key into the lock, jiggling it a few frantic times before it finally clicks open. The door swings inward with a reluctant creak, revealing...

God.

I stiffen, mortified.

There's no hiding the disaster inside: a sink full of dishes, clothes thrown haphazardly across a battered couch, a cracked coffee mug abandoned on the floor. And of course, the bucket half-full of water beneath the steady drip from the ceiling- plop. Right on cue.

I kick my six-inch stoplight-red stilettos out of sight and force a brittle smile.

"You can come in. I'll be just a second."

He steps inside without a word, his sharp gaze sweeping the room.

Not judging.
Just absorbing.
Which somehow feels worse.

I dart down the narrow hallway toward my bedroom, digging frantically through my purse until I yank out the meeting notes. I pause for half a second, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

Before I leave my room I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and the only words that come to mind are hot mess. Actually leave out the hot part. I am just a mess. 

Glitter smudged across my cheeks, mascara hanging on for dear life, red lipstick bleeding at the corners, bare legs exposed beneath a ratty parka.

I realize how silly I must look like with bare legs in this weather. God, what must he think?

I press my lips together and shake my head, clearing my mind before stepping back out into the living room, my cheeks still red with embarrassment.

Mr. Hayes is standing in the same spot I had left him, his expression as unreadable as always.

He's still standing in the same spot. He's motionless, with his hands tucked loosely in his pockets. His gaze flicks up as I approach.

"It's freezing in here, Lillian," he says

"Yes, my heater is broken," I attempt to lighten the mood with a laugh but it comes out as more of a sad chuckle. "But don't worry, I'm a pro at bundling up," I say with a half hearted smile painted across my lips. 

I hold out the papers, hoping to end this nightmare quickly. He takes a step closer, reaching for the paperwork I hold out sheepishly. His proximity is suddenly unnerving, my heart rate spiking as the scent of expensive cologne washes over me.

His green eyes meet mine, my outstretched hand still holding the papers with his hold still grasping them as well. His green eyes lock onto mine, so intensely it steals the breath straight from my lungs. My lips part instinctively in a soft gasp. His gaze darkens before quickly dropping to my lips and shooting back up to meet my eyes once more. A jolt of heat shoots through me so fast it leaves me dizzy.

It all happens in the span of a breath. A heartbeat.

And then it's gone.

"Goodnight Lillian," he says, slicing the tension with a sharpened knife. He take the papers nonchalantly. 

The way he composes himself so quickly and casually make it seem as if nothing had happened. Nothing did happen, I tell myself harshly. My cheeks burn with embarrassment once again as I think about how pathetic I must have looked, practically getting weak in the knees the minute he came within a foot of me.

He straightens, stepping back like nothing happened at all.

"Goodnight, Lillian," he says, cool and professional, as if he hadn't just unraveled me with a look. he says, cool and professional, as if he hadn't just unraveled me with a look.

I stand there, blinking dumbly, feeling absurdly foolish.

He moves toward the door, but at the last second, he glances back over his shoulder.

There's something different about his face now.
A tension easing.
A barely-there smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"By the way," he says, voice smooth and devastating, "you should wear that lipstick more often."

And then he's gone.
The door clicks softly shut behind him.

I stand frozen, heart hammering against my ribs, the soft whir of the heaterless apartment filling the space he left behind. 

I don't move a muscle as  I listen to his footsteps fade into the distance, but I stand frozen in place, my breathing momentarily hitched. The engine of his spaceship roars to life outside. I release a deep exhale as my body and mind slowly comedown from whatever that was.

I sink onto the edge of the couch, fingers digging into the worn fabric, my body buzzing from adrenaline and humiliation and something else I can't name.

I think about the smirk on his lips, the suit hugging his arms, and the way he looked standing outside of my front door. A part of me feels fired up, my stomach in knots but somehow on filled with butterflies. I swore I recognized that look in his eyes, one not too dissimilar to that of the men at Lilacs. A look of carnal craving, but maybe I was wrong. I shake my head of the thoughts, trying not to get carried away in fiction.

I replay the moment in my head. The way his eyes had dropped, the way he'd said it, you should wear that lipstick more often.

Not "you look nice."
Not "that color suits you."

Wear it more often.

Like he wanted to see it again. I shove the thought away before it can fully bloom.

Later, in the bathroom, I run a makeup wipe over my skin, reveling my dull complexion. As I look in the mirror, I'm reminded of the mediocrity of my looks and more importantly who I am, which is a nobody.  Without the glitter and the gloss, I look like myself again. Tired, plain and utterly forgettable.

I stare at my reflection for a long moment, studying the girl in the mirror. The one who dances half-naked for tips, who spills coffee on million-dollar rugs, who sleeps beneath a leaking roof and thinks maybe, just maybe, she caught the attention of a man like Leo Hayes.

Stupid.

I toss the makeup wipe into the trash with more force than necessary and shut off the light.

***********
AUTHORS NOTE:
Hello!  Thank you so much for choosing to give my story a read. If you like it, it would mean the world if you click on that star button!

Your comments and votes really do make my day and encourage me to continue this story! I'm so thankful that you've continued to stick with it. Writing this story is a dream of mine, and I am so excited to share it with you all!

Long live boss-assistant love story tropes!

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Alexandra