kitchen this morning?” Callum’s voice has me glancing over my shoulder from my place at the stove.
It’s been a day since he brought me to the nightclub. I thought it would change things but surprisingly it hasn’t. I’m not shaken or traumatized, my life feels pretty much the same. And even as I stand here with the man who turned out to be even more dangerous than I suspected, I feel at ease. Maybe not completely, but close enough.
Callum looks immaculate, per usual, with his black dress shirt, slacks, and leather belt. I’ve never seen the man with a single hair out of place. Does he even own a pair of sweatpants? Or does he just wear his dress clothes to bed?
“I reserve dancing for mornings I have enough energy to pull myself out of bed without a caffeine drip,” I inform him. “Today is not one of those days.”
“Whatever you say, Dewdrop,” his response has me pausing to actually look at him.
“Dewdrop,” I repeat. “Isn’t that a flower?”
Callum’s broad shoulders shrug as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to compare me to a plant.
“Seems fitting. Dewdrops are toxic when ingested, just like that poison you’re so addicted to.” He’s referring to Mountain Dew.
“Do you have a thing for nicknames or something?” The flick of my wrist turns off the burner.
“I know how much you love your other nickname. What’s one more?” He’s winding me up on purpose, and it’s working. “Right, Doc?”
‘There are a few choice words I’d like to call you right now.” If I’m not mistaken, I swear the man laughs at that. My eyes roll dramatically to the ceiling as I turn away from him to focus on things more worthy of my attention. Like my food.
Adding a drizzle of hot sauce and a sprinkle of salt and pepper, the plate is finished—and it’s a beautiful thing. Maybe I’m just hangry, because my agitation melts away with each bite of food. It only takes five spoonfuls of cereal before I’m ready to do my happy dance—something I’m sure the man standing only a few feet away notices.
“What’s for breakfast, Doc?” Callum eyes my spread like he doesn’t know what to make of it. It’s an unusual combination, but I like it.
“Oh, this is avocado, red onion, and a poached egg with some sriracha on a slice of toasted French bread.” My finger points to all the different components on my plate.
“And that?” He asks, nodding to the bowl. I flash him a smile and a small shrug.
“Cocoa Puffs.”
“Isn’t that a children’s cereal?”
“What can I say, I go coo-coo for cocoa puffs.” Swallowing the last spoonful, I reach for the box to refill my bowl.
“Are you at least going to put some fresh milk in there?” With the look I give him, the man might as well have sprouted a second head.
“That’s the best part. Do you seriously not know how satisfying it is to finish the second bowl and drink the chocolatey milk? Here, have some of mine.” I extend the box towards him, but he just eyes the cereal like it’s going to bite him.
“I don’t eat that stuff.”
“Oh, you’re one of those people.” I can’t say I’m surprised. “Let me guess, you’re a Raisin Bran and granola kinda guy.”
Callum straightens to his full height, rolling back his broad shoulders and stretching his neck.
“Cereal doesn’t cut it for me. I need protein and complex carbs. Sausage, eggs, beans, potatoes.” Circling the island, he opens the fridge and starts pulling out ingredients. Looking at the machine of a man across from me, it makes sense. I bet a guy his size needs to consume a lot of food for his body to keep running. He probably burns like a million calories a day just by existing, let alone working out. For me food is fun, and for him it’s fuel.
“I’m surprised you don’t have a cook.” The thought’s occurred to me a few times since he showed up. Watching a man as busy and formidable as Callum scramble eggs in the morning always seems a little out of place. I mean, I know even dangerous people need to eat, but the task seems too commonplace and almost silly when he does it.
“Typically, when I’m in the city I have a chef that provides me with weekly meals; breakfast and lunch. This trip was last minute, I didn’t get to some of the usual details.” He flashes me a meaningful look, case in point. I’m one of those details.
“No dinners?”
“Dinner is usually for business. I cook when I can.”
“Do you like cooking?”
“I’m good at it.”
“Ok, but do you like doing it?” He turns to look at me as if I’m speaking an unfamiliar language, jaw clenched tightly beneath his immaculate beard. “You do know what liking something means, right? Finding enjoyment, having fun.” I speak slowly, like an adult trying to explain something to a child with a soft smile on my face and a teasing tone in my voice. The serious expression I receive in return simply stares at me intensely.
Why is it so damn hard to get to know this guy? What’s a straightforward question for most people turns into a complicated equation with him. And I’m left sitting here with an incomplete answer trying to decipher all of the different variables. Math was never my strongest subject.
The portion of food he piles on his plate could feed a small family, his fuel for the morning. I sit patiently waiting for an answer, and after a long moment, he finally responds.
“Having fun isn’t something I spend energy on.” Stepping over to the coffeemaker, he pours himself a cup. No sugar, no cream.
“That explains a lot,” I comment, taking a bite of my toast. Next comes a spoonful of cereal, the perfect combo of savory and sweet.
“Meaning?” The man certainly has a mean stare, one I’m sure intimidates most people—it makes my pulse jump. My eyes trail down to how his expensive black shirt stretches taut across his broad shoulders. The sleeves rolled up to his elbows show off his strong forearms decorated in dark ink. There’s no denying he has good hands—the kind every woman wants to grab her by the throat and work her into a frenzy. Those hands can be my undoing, and I’ll gladly beg for more.
I haven’t decided if I need to be afraid of Callum yet. The evidence is circumstantial at best and the jury’s still out on this one. I know that people capable of violence aren’t always dangerous, and he’s never shown an ounce of aggression towards me. My high school best friend’s dad was in a motorcycle gang—he liked to crack skulls and he had a habit of pulling out a switchblade, but he treated his wife and daughters like princesses.
Callum’s grip on the coffee pot shifts and his brows raise marginally, his expression knowing. I’m staring, blatantly ogling him. And he noticed.
I avert my eyes quickly to focus on the food in front of me. “Just that you’re all business.”
“Speaking of business,” he pauses to catch my full attention again. I drag my eyes from my plate to land on him again—this time focusing as I fight back a blush. “Come into my office when you’re done eating. There’s something we need to discuss.” With that, he’s scooping up his plate and coffee and striding towards his office. I guess that means he doesn’t plan to eat with me.
“Sure thing, boss.”
“Don’t call me that,” he calls over his shoulder.
I smile to myself, bringing my bowl to my lips. I’m right, as usual—this chocolatey milk hits different. So good. Callum really doesn’t know what he’s missing. What’s the point in living longer if it means you can’t enjoy a bowl of sugary chocolate cereal once in a while?
After taking my time finishing my food, I take a deep breath before walking into Callum’s office. There’s something ominous about this room. It feels like I might accidentally trigger a boobytrap if I make one wrong move. Maybe it’s the man sitting behind his desk, inked arms on full display, who seems to always be watching and waiting. Or maybe it’s the idea that anything can be lurking between these four walls, like a man missing his finger dripping blood onto a tarp.
“Alright, what’s this business we need to talk about?” I ask, sitting in a chair across from Callum’s desk. His eyes leave the computer screen to look at me, lowering briefly to my outfit.
“You changed.”
I look down at the green sundress that replaced my pajama set after breakfast.
“I got dressed. I don’t want to be fired while I’m in my pajamas,” I say crossing one ankle over the other. Callum sits back in his chair, spreading his legs out in front of him while his eyes sweep over me in consideration.
“You’re not being fired, Lexie,” he replies, easing some of the worry gnawing at my stomach. “I was impressed the other night. The way you handled yourself at the nightclub surprised me, and I’m not surprised easily.”
“Right, the other night when I sewed up some random guy’s hand after his finger was cut off. You’re surprised I did a good job?” I take a second to absorb what he’s saying. “There’s a compliment in there somewhere.”
“There is,” he concedes, his hand running down his beard. “I won’t lie to you and say last night was a one-off. But the person I used to call is no longer an option.”
“Lucky me,” I can’t help but joke.
“In my line of work, I like to have a medical professional available to me at all times. Now that my previous arrangement is over, I’m looking for a replacement.”
“You’re talking about Tony,” I guess, the pieces suddenly clicking together until it makes sense. Callum nods, the weight of his focus never leaving me.
“Tony did more for me than just watch the apartment while I was out of town. And now there’s a position to fill. I want you to fill it, Doc.”
“You want me to work for you long term… as a private nurse?”
“Not specifically my nurse, but essentially yes.”
“So this would mean, what?” I need to know exactly what he’s proposing before I give him a response. Obviously having foreseen this, as a businessman, Callum slides a contract across the desk to rest in front of me. I thumb through it, it’s a few pages long. Colored tabs mark the different spots to sign—blue for signatures and yellow for initials.
“You’d live here in the city permanently. I’d require you to be available to me at all times, but you won’t always be working. You’ll basically be on-call, and act as a medical professional on my behalf. You’d accompany me to certain meetings, and travel occasionally.” He flips to the last few pages and taps on the paper. “And I require all of my employees to sign a Non-Disclosure Agreement.”
The NDA isn’t shocking, I already signed something similar when I signed the house-sitting agreement. Wealthy people, especially super private ones like Callum, don’t like people knowing their business. I’m betting his actual business has something to do with it too.
“So if someone gets sick or injured, I’d treat them for you? Like a concierge doctor.” It’s not uncommon for people to hire medical care out privately. I know a few girls who got sick of dealing with the randoms in the emergency room and decided to work for wealthy, old people who need a nurse to wheel them around and keep track of their many pills.
“Something like that.”
“And the incident at the nightclub. Something like that could happen again?”
“It’s possible.” Callum’s casual response is too vague. So I press.
“But is it probable?” The silent stare is answer enough. Damn, that’s a yes. But is that something I can handle? Or even something I can live with?
Dealing with the aftermath of violence isn’t a new concept to me, I see gore walk through the ER doors all the time. You’d be surprised how many idiots think they know how to operate a chainsaw and end up detaching whole limbs. Not to mention the number of muggings and shootings that leave their victims riddled with gaping holes like bloody swiss cheese. A missing finger is just the tip of the iceberg, small fish really.
But there’s a big difference between seeing the result of violence and knowing the people creating it. I know myself well enough to realize that I’m cool enough under pressure to handle any trauma, no matter how shocking. When I snap into gear, there’s nothing I can’t handle. My work ethic isn’t the question here, it’s my conscience.
“How long is the contract for?”
“Three years to start,” Callum says, sliding a check across the desk to sit next to the contract. “You’ll receive this first payment upfront with a decent signing bonus.”
There’s no helping how my eyes widen at the absurd number written at the bottom next to my name.
Damn, that’s a lot of zeros.
“And if I decide not to sign, I have to leave?” The initial rush of excitement is slowly fading as reality slides back in. This isn’t just another few months exploring a new city, I’d be moving here permanently. Taking this job means leaving my apartment, my friends, my younger sister Samantha, and the job waiting for me back home. It means leaving Mia. I’d be abandoning the west coast to become a New York resident.
“Not right away, I won’t kick you out on the street tonight. But you could only stay until I fill the position.”
“I’ll need to read through this,” I say, picking up the contract and leaving the check where it sits on the desk. It’s calling my name, but the uncertainty spinning muffles the sound in my head.
“Of course, take it,” Callum agrees deeply. “I want you to think about it. But I need your answer by tomorrow morning.”
I nod, holding the contract gingerly as I stand.
The walk back to my room has my heart thundering in apprehension. This is a big decision, one that dramatically changes my life. My first thought is to call Mia, my instincts are to talk it out with my best friend. But this is something I have to decide for myself, with no one else’s opinions or judgment.
Plus, I know how Mia’s going to feel about this. She’ll do her best to be objective and supportive, but anything she advises is going to be tainted by her bias. And if there’s anyone who can influence my decision-making, it’s her.
Reading through every line of the legal document, it looks like a fairly straightforward contract, but it’s air-tight. There’s no wiggle room. Once I sign it that’s it. There’s no changing my mind. The job sounds easy enough, definitely easier than what I do daily at the hospital. Plus the pay is so much more than I thought I would ever make in my lifetime.
And the thought of having to leave, so much sooner than I thought I would, and having to go back to my regular life in Oregon has dread clawing at my stomach. I love my home, but the idea of having to walk back into an emergency room makes me want to curl into a fetal position. It’s too soon, way too fucking soon—I need more time.
I can’t go back to the hospital, to the emergency room. I can’t go back to my regular schedule of twelve-hour shifts with patient after patient. Trauma after trauma. Just the thought has my heart rate picking up with anxiety.
Even after leaving the contract on my bed, my mind strays back to it throughout the day. The choice I have to make weighs on my mind for the majority of the day. Even as I bury myself in a new chicken recipe, my mind keeps falling back into the decision I have to make.
Ignoring Mia’s texts all day has me feeling guilty, but I can’t talk to her before I’ve decided for sure. She won’t hear from me until I’ve either signed the contract or started making travel arrangements back to the west coast.
Laying in bed to fall asleep, my mind is almost racing too fast for my demons to make their nightly visit. But it turns out the job offer isn’t enough to keep the horrifying images from flashing behind my eyes. Crimson blood trailing down the side of the gurney until it pools on the worn linoleum floor, mangled metal, and a child’s lunchbox covered in blood.
Bolting upright in bed, I gulp for air as my heart pounds. Anxiety grips my chest tightly as a cold sweat breaks across my skin. Switching on the lamp beside the bed, light floods the room as I reach for the contract and the pen I keep in the nightstand.
It might be complicated, but this is a good job offer. The work is less tedious, the pay is incredible. And I can’t go back to the hospital.
There’s really only one choice.
Going through each page, my pen swoops across the tabbed lines in sparkly black ink. It might not be the standard practice to sign a legal document with a glittery gel pen, but it’s what I have. And, let’s be honest, it’s who I am. At least it’s black and not the hot pink one I keep in my handbag.
And just like that, I’ve sealed my fate and changed my future.
