by Chase, Nikki
So, even though this is only our second holiday season, it’s probably our last chance to prove we can do this .
That’s why I’ve told my brothers we need an extra pair of hands. But it’s been weeks since Fraser said he was going to handle it .
He may be good with people, but when it comes to deadlines, he sucks balls. I swear if he doesn’t have our new hire by the end of this week, I’m going to strangle him .
Fraser
J esus, the job market must be atrocious .
I just posted the job ad on Monday. It’s only three days later, and I’ve already gotten, like, three hundred emails .
I didn’t even specify how much it pays or how many hours of work it is, so these people probably just need any kind of work they can get their hands on. You’ve got to feel sorry for the hordes of unemployed people who are probably desperate to move out of their parents’ basements .
To be honest, I completely forgot about it until Austin grumpily asked me about it at breakfast. Of course, I’ll never tell him that. He’d probably strangle me if he knew .
As I scroll through the multitude of unread emails, my eyes glaze over. How am I going to pick one out of this many people ?
Austin said he wanted someone who can follow instructions and is smart enough to help out wherever he or she’s needed .
It’s not like we need any kind of specialized skill, though. So, I guess . . . It probably doesn’t matter which one I pick, right ?
Any one of these people can write whatever bullshit they want in these emails, and we’ll only find out whether we’re a good fit when they start working, no matter what .
I stretch up my arms and yawn. I partied too hard last night. I might be getting too old for the party scene. It’s obviously not made for a thirty-year-old like me. I used to drink like a Russian, but now just a few shots give me debilitating headache the next morning .
I press my fingers on my temple, and I feel the throbbing vein pop out in the center of my forehead. Every time it pulses, it feels like the pressure’s going to make my head explode, sending my brain splattering on the floor .
“Any luck?” Sandy asks from his desk .
“Yeah, I’ve got it covered,” I say .
“Really?” Sandy twists in his swivel chair and gives me a flat stare .
“What do you mean by that? I can make a simple hiring decision, Sandy. I may not be as smart as you, but I can do this.” I rub my temple, but it doesn’t help .
“I don’t doubt your ability, but I haven’t seen you make a single call or conduct a single interview,” he says .
Damn it. Leave it to the geek to notice each little detail of everything that goes on at home. Why is he always home, anyway ?
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, glancing back at the computer screen .
“I’m not. It’s not a big deal. Not to me, at least,” he says, shrugging .
“Yeah, you’re cool .”
Sandy laughs. “That’s probably the first time someone’s called me ‘cool’ in my life. How hungover are you ?”
“Very,” I admit. “Do you know any good hangover cures? I’ll drink anything, no matter how gross it is .”
“No.” Sandy’s fingers tap noisily on the keyboard. Clickity- clack, clickity-clack . How does someone even type that fast? I get the feeling he’s not actually typing something but only mashing the keys to make my headache worse .
“That’s it?” I click on one of the emails to skim through it, then click on the Next button to briefly read through the next one. How do I pick one person? They all seem the same to me .
“Yeah.”
“You’re always spouting off some random fact you read from some research. Don’t you have anything helpful to tell me right now? Help your own brother out of his misery?” I ask with desperation .
“There’s no such thing as a ‘hangover cure,’” Sandy says, finally pausing his furious typing to look at me. “It’s all just a myth. None of those gross concoctions help. You just have to endure it until it goes away .”
I groan .
Rocky, our dog, perks up his ear and turns to me, giving me a pitying look with his big, round eyes. Finally, some sympathy .
“Or you can get a painkiller, I guess,” Sandy says .
I drag air into my lungs and let it all out. It doesn’t help, of course .
“I need to hire someone by tomorrow,” I say .
“I know .”
“Help.”
“Just pick a random email,” Sandy says .
“Seriously?” I ask, surprised. “I thought you’d tell me to, I don’t know, organize all the data into a spreadsheet or whatever .”
“Eh, we just need an assistant, not a programmer. Just get anyone,” Sandy says. “It’s not exactly rocket science .”
“Okay. Cool. I’ll hire the person who sent me the next email I open .”
“Fine with me,” Sandy says .
As I read through the email, I notice a note at the bottom .
P.S. Did you go to Rockvale High School, by any chance? Your name sounds familiar .
Massaging my temple, I ask Sandy, “Do you remember an Emma Stevenson ?”
“Nope,” he says without asking any further question, his fingers still making that annoying typing noise .
“She’s saying she went to Rockvale High .”
“Oh.”
“I guess I’ll just hire her?” I ask .
“Sure.”
I write a short email .
Emma,
I totally remember you! You’re hired .
I send the email and stretch again. That’s one thing done. I don’t know why Austin’s making such a big deal of it when it’s such an easy task .
Maybe I should look for that painkiller now .
“Do we have anything in the medicine cabinet?” I ask .
“What medicine cabinet?” Sandy chuckles .
“The one in the bathroom ?”
“Everything there’s expired. Mom probably bought them before she and Dad left on their cross-country RV trip .”
Damn it .
I guess I’ll have to go to the drugstore. Or maybe I can just order it online. “Hey, can I get same-day delivery for painkillers ?”
“Sure,” Sandy says. “So I take it someone’s coming tomorrow ?”
“What? No. I need the painkillers delivered today. I won’t have a hangover tomorrow .”
“Unless you go out partying again tonight,” Sandy says .
“Hey, I was networking for PR purposes, okay? I was trying to get us on the big websites. You think it’s fun partying with Silicon Valley types ?”
“No judgment here,” he says. “But I meant the new hire. They’re coming tomorrow ?”
“She . She’s coming tomorrow.” It feels good to be the one correcting Sandy for once. An opportunity like that doesn’t come often .
“Okay. She. She knows where we are, then?” Sandy asks .
Um . . .
“Of course,” I say as I re-read the email I sent .
No big deal. I just have to add an address and a time. I glance at Sandy. Hmm . . . Just an address will do .
I type another short email .
Come to 123 Stonecrest Dr tomorrow at any time. Someone’s always home, so just say you’re the new hire if I’m not around. See you then !
Emma
O h my god! I’m hired? I’m hired! I have a job! I don’t have to stay here for months and months like I was afraid I would .
And wow, Fraser Archer actually remembers me! I don’t know how he does since we didn’t speak at all in high school .
Well, that’s not technically true . . . There was that one time . . .
So, Fraser was probably the most popular jock in school—made the football team and everything—whereas, I was that shy girl who just wanted to fade into the background because I was too scared standing out would get me bullied .
One day, during lunch, I was reading in my usual quie
t spot when I spotted a jacket lying on the bleachers. As I stepped closer to check it out, I was secretly hoping it would be Fraser’s, but I knew there was only a small chance of that being true .
Still, my heart was hammering so hard my entire body vibrated when I picked up the jacket .
It sounds lame now, of course, but at the time, I thought it was my opening to finally get to know one of the popular kids and possibly become slightly cooler by association .
Then, I took a closer look at the jacket. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I read the red letters on the white fabric over and over again .
It had the name “Archer” on the back .
It couldn’t have belonged to any other Archer brother because Fraser was the only one on the team. Besides, his team number was on the jacket, too .
I plotted and planned for the perfect hand-over. I had a clear idea of what I wanted to happen. I played and re-played my imagined scenario in my mind so much that I dreamed about it .
In my dream, Fraser took the jacket from my hand, but he couldn’t take his eyes off me. Gazing at me lovingly like he’d never seen me in the school hallway before, he asked me how I’d found it and offered to take me out to the diner where all the cool kids used to hang out, although it was clearly just an excuse to ask me out .
It took me a whole week to work up the courage to give the jacket back. All week, I took that jacket to bed, sniffing and smelling it as I fell asleep. Yeah, it was kind of creepy, but the jacket belonged to Fraser Archer. Many girls would’ve done the exact same thing .
To be honest, I probably knew that the reality wasn’t going to live up to my fantasy, and I wanted to keep the dream alive for as long as possible .
Besides, I was getting addicted to Fraser’s scent—all musky and masculine—and on some level, I knew I wasn’t going to get another hit ever again .
I wanted to bottle up that scent and spray everything I had with it. My pink diary. My furry teddy bear. My favorite hoodie. My shiny, sequinned handbag .
Finally, I approached Fraser at the cafeteria. I waited until most of the students had left and he wasn’t surrounded by his posse of cool jocks and cheerleaders. If I was going to embarrass myself—and there was a good chance that was about to happen—I wanted an audience as small as possible. Still, I wished the cafeteria lady wasn’t there to bear witness .
“Hey,” I called out .
Fraser kept taking big strides with his long legs, making it hard for me to keep up. He didn’t hear me, either .
“Um, Fraser,” I said more loudly, my heart racing. If I’d been nervous when I’d spotted that jacket on the bleachers, this was a thousand times worse. It was the first time I’d called him by name, ever .
Fraser stopped and twisted to look at me. “Hi there,” he said with a friendly smile .
“Um . . . I . . . Uh . . .” Somehow, I forgot all the lines I’d practiced in front of the mirror in my bedroom. Lamely, I said, “I found your jacket .”
“Oh, I’ve been looking for that. I looked everywhere. Where did you find it?” he asked as he took the jacket I was offering him, his eyes on the piece of clothing instead of on me. He even held it up and checked the writing on the back, too .
“On the bleachers,” I said .
“Huh, weird. I checked there, too,” Fraser said .
I cursed myself for not thinking of the possibility that he’d think I’d stolen it or something. I mean, if he’d checked the bleachers and didn’t find it there, whereas I did . . .
“You must have better eyes than me. I should probably ask you to help me when any of my stuff goes missing, huh?” Fraser winked at me, shattering any composure I had .
I just stood there, frozen like a statue. I laughed nervously .
“Well, thanks,” he said. “I didn’t catch your name .”
“Uh . . . Emma,” I said .
“Thanks for finding my jacket, Emma.” Fraser flashed me a big grin, showing off his perfect rows of dazzling white teeth .
“Um . . . Yeah . . . I mean . . . No problem . . . Eh . . . You’re welcome . . .” I stuttered .
And then, unlike any of the fantasy scenarios I’d played in the private theater of my mind, he gave me one last smile and turned his broad back on me, putting on his jacket as he was walking away .
And I stood there, hating myself and wishing the earth had opened up to swallow me into a black hole of nothingness, erasing me from existence .
But now, to finally find out that Fraser still remembers my name? Oh my god .
Although . . . I’m in trouble if I still stutter when I meet him tomorrow. I know he says I’m hired in his email, but he’ll probably fire me on the spot if I act like a dumb, infatuated schoolgirl .
I wonder if I’ll get to see the other Archer brothers, as well .
It wasn’t just Fraser I had my eyes on. I had a crush on all five of them. They were all so different, yet each of them was irresistibly attractive in his own way .
Ah, the Archer brothers. I think I still have my old diary where I doodled all their names and called myself Emma Archer. God, that was so cringey .
But, it wasn’t like I was the only girl with a crush on them. There was even an unofficial fan club that collected and shared data about them. You know, dumb stats like height (they were all over six foot tall), eye color (dark brown for Sandy and Ian; blue for the other Archer brothers), favorite colors . . . that kind of stuff .
Oh, memories. I wonder if they’re all married with kids now. Since I’ll be working with Fraser, I guess I’ll find out eventually, if I play my cards right .
I feel like pulling out my pink diary and writing about what’s happening, except I have no idea where it is. Probably inside some musty, old cardboard box in a closet at home .
Man, I don’t even know if I can fall asleep tonight. I haven’t been this excited in years .
Ian
“H i!” says a chirpy female voice .
Great. I haven’t even gotten off my Harley yet, and already, someone’s bugging me. Can’t get any peace these days .
But, when I take my helmet off and take a look at her—whoa .
She’s got full, plump, red lips made for kissing, and curves made for fucking. My eyes trace her shapely calves and thighs as I wonder what it would feel like to bury myself between those toned legs .
She’s wearing a black coat that hides the rest of her body, but I’ll bet good money her tits are just as tantalizing as her long legs. They certainly seem like they’d be a good size. People say more than a handful is a waste, but hey, I’ve got big hands .
After all, the other thing people say about guys with big hands? Completely true, at least in my case. And if this girl wants to find out just how true it is, I have a few hours to spare .
“Hello there,” I greet her with a smirk, holding the helmet in my hands. Winter wind slaps my face coldly, which feels nice after being stuck inside the helmet all day .
I notice the girl’s got her arms wrapped around her body and her jaw clenched. She looks cold. I can help with that. I can warm her right up and make her sweat in my bed .
I see it already: her long blonde hair fanned out on my pillow, her delicious body bared for me to play with, her luscious legs spread wide underneath me . . .
“Oh my god,” she says as she stands by my bike. “You’re Ian Archer, aren’t you ?”
Well, I do have a reputation with women in certain circles, but I’m sure I haven’t met this one before. I’d have remembered someone like her .
“Yeah. You’re here to see me, babe?” I ask. “You cold? I’ve got heating and some warm blankets inside .”
Booty calls are usually proceeded by, you know, actual phone calls. But I’d be happy to make an exception in this case .
Her cheeks fill with color, and she glances away, embarrassed. I fucking love it when girls do that. Makes me want to push her past her limits and bring the nympho in her out to play—and believe me, every girl’s got a
nympho hiding inside her; it just takes a guy who knows his shit to peel off her good-girl exterior. A guy like me .
She furrows her brows and bites her bottom lip in a way that makes me want to nibble on other parts of her. “Uh, actually, I’m here to see Fraser. He says there’s always someone home to let me in .”
“Fraser, huh?” I ask .
Damn it. That means she’s probably one of the party girls Fraser met last night. I can definitely imagine her in a short, body-fitting dress that shows off all her curves, moving her body on the dance floor while alcohol clouds her judgment . . .
She looks completely sober now, though .
Still, there’s no reason why she can’t have some fun with me, even if she’s already been with Fraser. We’re blood brothers, but we’ve been eskimo brothers, too. We’ve shared girls before—and not always one after another .
There’s nothing like a ménage a trois —or quatre, cinq, six . . . you get the idea. Anyway, nothing like it to drive a girl crazy and make her act really wild .
“Fraser’s not usually home at this time of day.” I tear my gaze off her to check my watch. “But I can probably help you out. I didn’t get your name, by the way .”
“I’m Emma. Stevenson. We went to the same high school. Rockvale High,” she says, adding more and more details I didn’t ask for. She knits her brows. “Wait. Did you say ‘home’?” Is this where he lives ?”
“Yeah. You didn’t know that?” I ask. What is this? Some kind of a high school reunion ?
“No. He didn’t mention that in his email. He just told me there’s always someone who can open the door for me .”
He must mean Sandy. Sandy works on his computer and spends most of his time in our shared home office .
But why would Fraser ask this hottie to come here, just to tell her to find Sandy ?
“He sent you an email?” I ask .
Is she an old ex-girlfriend from high school or some girl he met at the club? Why would Fraser email some one-night stand? Do people do booty emails now instead of booty calls? Is this really where technology has taken us ?